


the only way to being found is getting lost at first

by terpsichorean



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Angst, Canon Era, Case Fic, Character Study, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Supernatural AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 48,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichorean/pseuds/terpsichorean
Summary: Carwood Lipton has been hunting monsters all his life, and knows he'll be doing it until the day he dies. For those who live and work at the Lipton Boarding House, a hub for hunters to regroup and get information, it's the family business. After his service with Easy Company, Carwood returned to his home and to a hunting community that needs him more than ever. When a new and even more dangerous than usual case falls into his hands, he's willing to do what it takes to get the job done. But he didn't expect to meet an old friend along the way, or for the price to be quite so high.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so apparently this is what happens when you watch bob obsessively while also reading spn fic. 
> 
> although this is a spn au, you don't need to actually have watched the show to understand what's happening. basically, monsters are real and carwood hunts them. that's about it. that said, i've put in links for all the monsters mentioned in this part at the end of the chapter, if you want more info. there's also some easter eggs for those who do watch the show, but you won't miss anything if you don't.
> 
> speirs doesn't actually show up for a while in this part lol, but i promise he is eventually here. 
> 
> also, the non-con tag refers to a monster that briefly mind controls carwood. nothing major happens, but its creepy and it sucks, so i wanted people to know. if you want to skip it, skip the part beginning '“You didn't,” Carwood said quickly,' to 'Later, after he and Jake had burned the body, they huddled in Jake’s car while he explained.'
> 
> special shout-out to my roommates, who have all been super helpful and encouraging throughout me writing this. they've done everything from listen to me rant to willingly act out scenes i was having trouble with to give me ideas. i have never seen a better speirs impression. 
> 
> Title from the song Great Divide by Ira Wolf

 

 

 

At night, the Lipton Boarding House looked like the lone, lit oasis in a sea of darkness. Carwood took a moment to study it before he took a deep breath and exited his truck. On his way up the drive, he noted the vehicles parked out front. Looked like they had a full house tonight.

Carwood climbed up the steps of the porch, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder as he opened the door. As he always did on entering, he nudged the rug in the foyer until he could see the Devil’s Trap etched underneath. Satisfied it was still intact, he replaced the rug and went inside, heading toward the sound of voices in the main living room.

His mother was in her usual spot by the fireplace, listening to the hunter beside her while knitting. A small smile lit her face, a smile that Carwood couldn’t help but echo when he saw her, safe and happy.

She looked up when he entered the room and grinned. “Carwood,” she said, “You’re back already! How did it go?”

Carwood crossed the room, bending to give her a hug. “It went well, Ma. One less poltergeist to worry about.”

The hunter next to Ma, a young woman named Marie, gave a low whistle. “You took a  poltergeist out all on your lonesome? That’s impressive, Carwood.”

Carwood huffed a laugh, dropping his gaze to the floor. He didn’t know Marie well, but he did know she had built herself an impressive reputation during the war. “Thanks, Marie.”

Marie grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. “You’re welcome. And the next time you run into a poltergeist or the like, you just let me know. I’ll give you a hand.” And she winked at him.

Carwood tried not to blush while Ma unlocked her wheels and tutted at Marie. “Oh, stop,” she said, “you’ll embarrass him. Carwood, dear, let’s go into the kitchen and get you something to eat. If I’d known you were coming I would have held dinner.”

Carwood turned to follow Ma out of the room, shaking his head in mock censure at Marie while she laughed. As he left the room, he nodded and smiled at the other hunters in the room, mumbling a good evening to those he knew better.

In the kitchen, Ma heading to the stove to put the kettle on to boil. As she did, Carwood set down his bag and set about making himself a sandwich.

“Where’s Lee?” he asked, glancing over to his mother as he buttered his bread. She smiled at him absently while scouring the tea cabinet for the blend she wanted.

“He’s talking to William on the phone right now. As I understand it, William’s in a bit of a bind with a particularly difficult to exorcise spirit.”

Carwood paused before taking his seat at the table. “Does he need a hand?”

Ma shot him an exasperated look. “He’s fine, dear, just needed some help with the particulars of a cleansing ritual. No need to rush off in such a hurry. It’d be good for your to spend more than one or two nights at home.”

“I go where the work takes me, Ma.”

Ma finally selected a tea blend and started scooping some out. “I know that; it’s the nature of the work, and I’ve been doing this far longer than you. But you need to take breaks now and then or you’ll burn out. I feel like I’ve barely seen you since you came home.”

Carwood nodded at the table, chewing mechanically and barely tasting his food. It wasn’t the first time his mother had brought up his lengthy absences and it probably wouldn’t be the last. There was an element of truth in her comments—Carwood had not been at the boarding house very often since his return from Europe. He had thought being home would be soothing but instead it rubbed his ragged edges raw. He found it harder and harder to find peace in the quiet of the boarding house and turned, as he always did when unsure of himself and his surroundings, to work.  

“It’s been busy, Ma. With the amount of hunts right now, I wouldn’t feel right sitting at home and letting someone else deal with it.”

Ma shot him a look laced with fond amusement. “You never have been able to resist helping out, even as a baby. I take it as a sign that I raised you right.”

Carwood smiled. “That you did.”

“I do hope, after things settle a little, that you’ll spend more time at home. God knows Leland and I’d like to see more of you after all these years.”

Carwood hoped his smile stayed as bright as it had been. “I will,” he said, feeling the burn of a lie in his chest. He didn’t know what he was going to do after things settled on the hunting front, but he didn’t think it would have anything to do with spending more time at the boarding house.

They sat for a long moment, just listening to the sound of conversation in the other room and the water boiling. He was safe here, Carwood knew. The Lipton Boarding House was probably one of the safest places in the country, considering the amount of warding throughout the building and the grounds. And yet he still couldn’t let down his guard, not even here surrounded by his family. He didn’t fit into his own skin anymore, didn’t slot into his place in his family quite right. The only felt truly comfortable when he was driving an empty highway late at night, where he was free to be only himself without any demands or expectations.

The silence was broken as the kettle started to whistle. Ma deftly removed it from the hot element while Carwood stood to bring his plate to the sink. “Here, Ma, I got it. You take yourself over to the table and relax.”

Ma laughed and rolled over to the table, snagging a tin of cookies on the way. “That’s another reason to want you home more, Carwood: I get to laze around a lot more.”

Carwood snorted, carefully pouring the boiling water into the teapot. Just as he was bringing the tea tray to the table, Leland appeared in the door from the other room, face buried in the book he was holding.

“Ma, do you know where our lamb’s blood is? Willie mentioned he was running low and I—” He glanced up and did an exaggerated double take when he saw Carwood.

“Carwood, you’re back!” Leland exclaimed, dropping his book at the table to rush in for a hug. Trying to hide a wince, Carwood nevertheless leaned into the embrace for a moment before pulling back.

“When did you get in?”  Leland asked, snagging a chair to sit in.

“Not too long ago. Just long enough to get a bite to eat,” Carwood said, easing into his own chair.

“And long enough to flirt with Marie,” Ma said wryly, stirring her tea pointedly.

Carwood groaned theatrically as Leland laughed. “Oh yeah? You get anywhere?”

Carwood was already shaking his head before Leland stopped speaking, glaring at him as his brother shoved his shoulder teasingly. “No, I didn’t, because we weren’t flirting. Marie was just teasing me.” The more time he got to know her, the more she reminded him of Luz. He almost expected her to start grabbing his ass for laughs.

“Well, maybe you should ‘tease’ back next time,” Leland said, giving Carwood one last shove before leaning back in his chair.

Carwood tapped the ring on his finger before leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea. “Still married the last time I checked, Lee.”

“Separated, and not likely to get back together from what you’ve said.”

“Leland,” Ma hissed, shooting him a dark look. “Let’s try to be a little more sensitive, shall we?”

Leland hung his head guiltily. “Sorry, Carwood. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanna see you happy, y’know?”

“I know, Lee. It’s alright,” Carwood said gently, fingering his ring absently before cupping both hands around his teacup. “I’m just not ready yet, I guess.” And probably never would be. At least not for a relationship with someone he could tell his, albeit well-meaning, family about.

“Besides,” Carwood said, shooting a teasing look at Leland in an attempt to lighten the mood, “I don’t think Marie would go for someone like me.”

Leland’s face brightened, guilt evaporating into good-hearted mockery. “Oh no? How about your younger, much more handsome, brother?”

Carwood snorted and took a pointed sip of his tea. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Leland laughed, leaning forward to grab a cookie from the tin while Ma shook her head at the both of them.

“So, what have you been up to? Poltergeist went down okay?” Leland asked, somehow managing to avoid spraying crumbs everywhere even though he was talking through a mouthful of cookie.

“It went fine, Lee.”

Ma shot him a sharp look. “Is that why you’re wincing?”

Carwood blinked at her. “I’m not -”

“Carwood, please, give me some credit. You’re moving like a board and you almost keeled over getting into that chair.” She looked at him closely, and Carwood was uncomfortably reminded of his childhood when Ma always seemed to know he’d been up all night reading or was faking sick to stay home from school. “What happened?”

There wasn’t much Carwood wouldn’t confess to when his mother looked at him like that. “I got thrown around a bit, that’s all. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

Ma hummed noncommittally, and took another sip of her tea. “In that case, maybe you should head up and get an early night.” Leland nodded in agreement, expression concerned.

Carwood nodded, feeling the weariness caused by a long drive and a grueling hunt hit him all at once. “I think you’re right, Ma.” He drained his teacup and stood gingerly from the table. He was about to say his goodnights when Ma spoke again.

“I almost forgot: a couple letters arrived for you while you were gone. I put them upstairs on your desk. One from Mr. Winters and another from Mr. Speirs.”

Carwood paused and hoped his expression hadn’t shifted. “Thanks, Ma. I’ll read them before I turn in.”

“Alright, dear. We’ll see you in the morning.” Ma smiled at him, closing her eyes when he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.

“Good night, Ma. ‘Night, Lee,” Carwood said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. Lee mumbled his own goodnight, reaching across to the tin to grab another cookie.

Carwood grabbed his bag and headed down the hall to the stairs. Once he was out of eyesight, he allowed himself to limp, favoring his right leg. He probably would feel better in the morning, but right now the bruise on his thigh hurt something awful.

Getting upstairs was more of an ordeal than he anticipated. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the top and trudged down to his room. He dropped his bag on the floor as soon as he entered, ignoring the clanking of his guns; he wouldn’t clean them tonight, even though he should. He was so tired he was tempted to just fall face down in his bed and not move until morning.

But even as he thought that, he looked over at the desk and saw the letters waiting for him. He sighed, grabbed them both, and sat down on his bed with a stifled groan. No matter how tired he was, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing the letters were laying there unopened.

‘Letters’ was actually a misnomer. One was the standard envelope he expected, Dick’s neat writing printed along the front. The other was a package, carefully wrapped, with Ron’s familiar scrawl spelling out his name.

Carwood lingered over the package for a moment. Then he carefully set it to the side and opened the letter from Dick.

It was the usual missive: Dick asking after Carwood’s family, talking about his job and his neighbours, sharing Nix’s latest humourous misadventure. Reading over it quickly, Carwood grasped the most important part of the letter: Dick and Nix were both well and happy.

Carwood held the letter for a moment, just feeling the weight of the words lingering in his mind. He hadn’t seen Dick or Nix since Easy was disbanded last winter and they had all come back to America and gone their separate ways. Dick had made it clear that Carwood, or any other member of Easy, was welcome wherever he was at any time, but the closest Carwood had ever gotten to New Jersey in almost a year was when he was hunting a werewolf in Baltimore over the summer. He had thought he might continue on to visit but he’d been so tired at the end of the hunt he could barely stomach the drive home, let alone the drive to New Jersey and the forced cheer and the lies he would have to tell once he arrived. As far as any of the men knew, Carwood was helping out at the boarding house, running errands, that kind of thing. Nothing deadly or dangerous. Certainly nothing supernatural. And Carwood couldn’t bring any of that to their door, no matter how much he wanted to see them.

So he was restricted to letters and postcards. In any case, it was far easier to lie and mislead in writing than in person.

Carwood set the letter aside, promising himself that he would write back to Dick in the morning. For now, he turned his attention to the package sitting in his lap, rubbing his thumb absently over the brusque ‘R. Speirs’ in the top left corner before unsticking the corners and taking the wrapping off.

He opened the box. Resting on top was a letter, folded with his name scrawled across the top. Underneath the letter was a book and an incredibly nice watch.

Carwood laughed as soon as he saw the watch. It was the second time he had been given a watch by Ron; the first time was in Germany just after he had recovered from pneumonia. Carwood had been sick and Hagenau hadn't been kind to him or his men; he'd had better things to worry about than his watch and hadn't really thought about it besides the knowledge that it was hanging off his wrist like always. He didn’t know if it had stopped sometime during his illness, during that incident with Malarkey, or sometime during his recovery from both. He’d only really noticed when he’d glanced at it while the boys were loading on the trucks and realized it had been 12:15 for two hours.

Carwood never knew how Ron had found out that his watch had stopped; he certainly never would have brought up something so insignificant with the company commander. Carwood had made a vague plan to find a replacement soon and made a habit of asking the men for the time. It had worked for a couple days. And then one day, shortly after they’d moved on from Hagenau, Ron had marched up to him as Carwood was speaking to Bull, Johnny, and Luz. Without more than a nod of greeting, Ron had grabbed Carwood’s wrist, unstrapped his useless watch, and slapped on a new one. True to Ron’s inclination for looting, the replacement was far more luxurious than any watch Carwood would ever even have considered owning.

While Carwood had still been scrambling for words, Ron had just clapped him on the shoulder, said “Congratulations on the promotion,” and strode off, his Tommy gun slung casually over his shoulder.

When he had managed to gather himself, he had tracked Ron down and tried to politely refuse the gift. Ron had just stared at him until he stopped speaking and then smiled that sharp smile of his that Carwood sometimes felt he might cut himself on.

“Don’t stress about it so much, Lieutenant,” he had said, clearly amused.

Carwood had shaken his head. “It’s not - it’s too expensive, sir, I can’t possibly accept it.”

Ron had frowned at him, the amusement leaving his face. “It’s a gift, Lip,” he had said, and Carwood remembered feeling rooted to the spot at hearing his nickname out of that mouth. “You deserve it. Do what you want with it. But it’s yours now and I’m not taking it back.” And Ron had walked away again, not looking back.

Carwood had worn that watch for the rest of the war, winding it diligently every night. He had obligingly shown it off to Ma and Leland after he got home, fighting his too-large smile the entire time, afraid it showed how pleased he was by the gift. He had been devastated when he lost it hunting a pair of chupacabra the previous month. Guilt stricken, he had written Ron and apologized, saying he had lost it while replacing some piping at the boarding house. He had been kicking himself ever since, both for the loss and the lie. And now here Ron was, providing another like it was the simplest thing in the world.

A bittersweet smile still pulling at his mouth, Carwood unfolded the letter.

_Carwood,_

_I apologize for not replying to your last letter sooner; as you know, I have just been moved to a new position and it is keeping me occupied. I’m glad to hear your mother and brother are well and that the boarding house is doing well. I expect that you will receive more travellers as the holidays grow nearer and will be kept busy yourself._

_Despite my hectic schedule, I’ve managed to keep up some of my hobbies. I recently reread a book I thought you might enjoy. I’ve enclosed a copy for you to read. Also enclosed is a token I found while walking yesterday that reminded me of you._

_I’ve decided to take your advice and agreed to a standing dinner engagement with some of the other officers here. Though I would not say I have been ‘lonely’ as you accused me of being in your last letter, I do find myself missing the camaraderie of the men. Although I don’t know any of these officers that well, I find myself optimistic about these engagements. I blame you for this. Besides, they are all divorced, widowed, or bachelors, so I suppose I fit right in._

_Now that I have taken some of your advice, I hope you will listen to some of mine. During the war you spoke several times of your wish to go to university and get a degree. Now, with your myriad responsibilities and your staunch devotion to said responsibilities, I fear you have begun to let that dream go. And it is my sincerest wish that you do not._

_You are a bright man, Carwood. Not simply because you are intelligent, although you certainly are that, but because you have a gift for uplifting people and illuminating what’s truly important. I cannot count the number of times I heard how you helped the men keep going during the war and how you still inspire them today. I firmly believe you are capable of anything you put your mind to._

_I know it’s not my place to dictate your life to you, and if I have overstepped myself, please forgive me. But you are an impressive person Carwood, full of potential. I know you could accomplish great things at university, and I would like to see you do so._

_Give my regards to your family. Think on my advice._

_I look forward to hearing what you think of the book._

_Ron_

Carwood swallowed hard, blinking as he reread the letter. On the third read through, he noticed he was squeezing it and wrinkling the paper, so he let it drop to his lap.

Ron was always far kinder than he gave himself credit for. He always tried to hide it, but it shone through when he was dealing with the men. Carwood had known how kind Ron was since that church in Rachamps, where he had smiled at Carwood so softly and told him that he hadn’t failed in Bastogne and the Bois Jacques, regardless of how many men had died and how little Carwood believed or accepted his words.

Ron’s kindness had been unfailing throughout the war. He didn’t always shown it through soft words and softer glances, but it was there all the same, even when his words turned gruff and his looks hard. Carwood had relied on it many times then, leaning on it when he was ill and when the boys needed a good commander to keep them orderly and safe as the war was ending. He knew Ron would never be cruel to him but, despite his intentions, his words felt cruel now.

Carwood had felt helpless and overwhelmed many times in his life. After his father had died and he was trying to keep his broken family together at just ten years old. On some of his first hunts, before the motions of the hunt and the fight had become more instinctual. He had felt a burning kind of helplessness many times during the war, knowing his boys were bleeding and dying and there was nothing he could do about it. Somehow, he had made it through all those moments and come out the other side, not necessarily stronger, but at least alive. But he had never felt like he had made it through because of his own prowess or capability. And he still didn’t feel capable now. He felt like he was treading water, waiting for the inevitable moment when he went under and didn’t have the strength to come back up.

Any nascent dreams he had entertained about roaming a university campus as a student and not a hunter seeking a monster or information had died when he returned to the States. He wasn’t resurrecting that ghost, regardless of how well-meaning and unbearably generous Ron was.

Carwood gingerly picked the letter up from where he had dropped it and put it on the desk, next to Dick’s letter. He took the book, a surprisingly worn volume of _The Odyssey_ , out of the package and placed it on his nightstand. Then he put on his pyjamas and slipped into bed. He would need an early start tomorrow, if he wanted to reply to both letters before starting his day.

Before turning off his light, Carwood reached out to his new watch, knowing he would need to wind it before sleeping; bizarrely, he was looking forward to renewing that specific habit. As he started to wind it, he noticed faint etchings on the back which resolved themselves into words as he looked closer.

_in perpetuum_

_R.S._

So much for the watch being some impulsive purchase like Ron implied in his letter.

Carwood finished winding the watch quickly, unable to deal with the emotions aroused by Ron’s letter and gifts. As much as Ron gave Carwood a hard time for not realizing his better qualities, Ron was just as blind to his own and the effect they had on others. And Carwood found it hard enough, just thinking of Ron out there, living his life in Boston, seemingly happy, or at least content. He couldn’t bear to know that Ron was spending his time thinking about Carwood, reading his letters, going out with the specific intention of buying Carwood a watch for no other reason than because he needed one, spending who knows how much money on the watch and the engraving. It was too much—not the money, but just the knowledge. The awareness of how much he was on Ron’s mind, even in absentia, even though they hadn’t seen each other in almost a year and only communicated through letters, settled deep in Carwood’s gut like an anchor.

Even as he turned out his light, Carwood knew he would find it difficult to sleep tonight.

He was right.

 

\--------

 

Carwood wasn’t sure when it had started.

If he had to pick a place and time, he would say the very beginnings had been at Foy. Before that, he had never really spoken or spent any length of time with Ron—then known as the very mysterious Lieutenant Speirs, or Bloody Speirs by the very brave or very stupid. But he had heard the stories; he was sure the entirety of Second Battalion had heard the stories. How Speirs had shot and killed one of his own soldiers for being drunk. How he had shot and killed a group of unarmed German POWs, but only after offering them cigarettes (Carwood had always been uncertain about the part of that story that was meant to make Ron seem the most inhuman—the killing, or the waste of good cigarettes). He was a legend long before they had reached Bastogne, more of a bogeyman than a person.

And the thing was, the stories weren’t completely unbelievable. Carwood may not have spoken to him, but he’d seen Ron in action before Foy. He’d seen how he’d taken that gun at Brecourt almost single handedly, teeth bared in a snarl. After seeing that, it wasn’t difficult to imagine him mowing down POWs in cold blood.

Despite all that, Carwood could never bring himself to be intimidated by Ron like some of the other men. All men looked fearsome in war paint and a Thompson in hand. And Carwood didn’t think there was a single man in Normandy who hadn’t taken a human life. He certainly had. He couldn’t in good conscience shame Ron for any actions he had taken that day.

Besides, Carwood had seen things much more terrifying things than a regular human man with a gun. Hell, he’d spent his entire life around men with guns. He had better things to worry about.

After D-Day, Carwood only ever saw Ron in passing. As time wore on and the legends grew, Carwood could almost tell when Ron was approaching as the men would suddenly turn quiet and refuse to look to look up from their feet. Then Ron would pass like some ghostly freight train, utterly silent but leaving men swaying and muttering to themselves in his wake, expressions a mix between fear and awe.

In Bastogne and the Bois Jacques, that phenomenon was one of the only things that could reliably make him smile.

After he’d noticed it, Carwood made a special effort to meet Ron’s eyes whenever they passed each other. As much as Carwood suspected Ron took some kind of twisted pleasure in his reputation, Carwood couldn’t imagine it was easy to be a legend. He’d seen it before in some of the hunters who stopped for a night at the boarding house, the ones who’d seen too many fights. They were worn down in some ineffable way, eroded like a stone hammered by the waves for eons. He hadn’t seen that same kind of wear in Ron, not yet, but he felt like he could see it coming. In some odd way, Carwood hoped his simple gesture would provide some kind of human connection as much as show that not everyone in the Battalion was scared stiff of Ron.

At first, Ron had barely seemed to notice, much as he barely seemed to notice the men around him until he was giving orders. It felt like Carwood spent weeks nodding acknowledgement to someone who stared right through him. Then one day, no different than any other, Ron started responding. Every time he and Carwood passed each other, Ron would nod and stare right at him with an intensity that might have shaken Carwood if he hadn’t been so determined not to show it. Sometimes, he would even speak, just a soft “Sergeant,” as he passed. In these moments, Carwood would convince himself that Ron sounded amused, rather than just stony.

It became a reassuring ritual: Easy might get the shit shelled out of them at any moment, but later when Carwood went to report in at the CP, he would pass by Ron, they would nod at each other, and Carwood would feel a bit lighter.

On second thought, maybe it had started before Foy.

But Foy had marked a turning point in their relationship, if it could even be called that prior, just as it had been a turning point for the whole Company. If Ron hadn’t become company CO, they might never have exchanged more than nods and greetings. But after Foy, Ron was always around. He was a good commander, present in a way that Dike had never been. And a good commander made use of all available resources for intelligence, and Ron had apparently decided that Carwood was such a resource.

After Foy, it felt like Ron was everywhere, asking about this man’s ability, whether that platoon could handle a particular objective. Although he tried to fight it, Carwood always found himself horribly flattered that Ron, who didn’t seem to rely on most men, trusted his opinion enough to ask it so frequently. Every time he did, Carwood felt a peculiar warmth flood his chest at the thought.

He’d later blamed that on the pneumonia, of course.

In retrospect, Carwood had spent months in denial, unwilling to acknowledge how he was beginning to feel. But any hope of denial came crashing down after they reached Berchtesgaden.

At that point, everyone in Easy had begun to relax; the war was practically over and while the spectre of the Pacific lingered on the horizon, it seemed far away from the sun drenched beauty of Bavaria. Ron hadn’t been immune, even as he privately confided in Carwood that he worried the men were becoming too careless. He had begun to smile more there, shifting his face out of its perpetual hard, stern lines to something more boyishly handsome and sweet. It was such a novelty that Carwood couldn’t help but stare.

That was when he started to suspect his respect for Ron had gone far over the boundary of platonic emotions. His misgivings were confirmed the day he and Dick told the other officers that the war in Europe was finally over. Carwood had already been so happy he felt like he was walking on air. But his happiness felt like nothing compared to the joy on Ron’s face when he saw him, the pleasure in his voice when he said Carwood’s name. He wasn’t sure if anyone had ever been that happy to see him since he was a young man returning from his first hunt mostly uninjured. And all he could think was how handsome Ron was when he was happy and how much Carwood wanted to always make him that happy by just walking into a room.

It was something he had felt before, the rush of looking at a handsome man and feeling his insides twist. He had never really acted on it; even if he wanted to, the only men he ever spent any time around were hunters or victims, neither of which invited any kind of speculation of being queer. The hunting community was closed-knit and as much as they operated outside of the normal world, they followed certain tenets of it closely. Carwood couldn’t bring potential damage to the family business by acting on his feelings with the wrong person and having them spread it around. Even after he had met Peggy and realized how they could help each other, he had never felt brave enough to risk it.

But it was worse now with Ron, because he actually knew him beyond being a pretty face. He knew Ron was brave and loyal and determined, willing to go to untold lengths for the people he cared about. Ron was steady, someone Carwood could rely on in any circumstances. God, Carwood was so far gone that he even found Ron’s looting endearing, although he couldn’t have imagined standing by fighting a smile while a superior officer ransacked a house before he met Ron.

Carwood didn’t know if he’d ever felt this deeply for another man before, if he’d ever let himself get this close to a man he was inclined to look at in this way. It was a sweet agony, every new thing he noticed about Ron—and they seemed to be endless—making his feelings deepen, all the while knowing he could never do anything about it.

Because he couldn’t, Carwood had first realized while trying to surreptitiously study Ron in the Austrian sunlight. There were so many reasons why he could barely count them. Ron had given no indication of being interested in men at all, not even the subtle signs that Carwood had tried so hard to eradicate in himself. It was ludicrous to fantasize that Carwood would somehow catch Ron’s eye; he had never been the type of man who got second glances. Even in some world where Ron was interested in men and Carwood managed to catch his fancy, any kind of relationship between them would never work. It was too risky, especially for Ron as a career military man. Besides, Carwood knew his own limits: he could countenance being with Ron while he was lying to him.

Despite how close they had gotten, Carwood had never been truthful with Ron, not completely. He’d lied to Ron as they were getting to know one another outside their ranks and he’d continued to lie from then on. It didn’t matter that many of those lies were those of omission, they were still a barrier between them that could only be crossed by Carwood telling the truth about his life, all of it. And that was something he would never do. Carwood would never bring a war to Ron’s doorstep, knowingly enlisting him as a soldier in a battle he had never asked to fight. Because Carwood knew that would be what would happen: as soon as Ron knew about the creatures that lurked in the dark, hungering for human prey, he would feel the need to fight against them. Carwood would never bring him into that kind of danger, not if he had any other option.

So, instead, he waited. He waited for the feelings to pass and fade, as they had before with other men he had longed for. He waited as the war officially drew to a close, waited as Easy was disbanded and he shook Ron’s hand goodbye in a train station in New York. He continued to wait as he hunted throughout the country, staring at the ceiling late at night with his mind on the war he had just finished and the war he had re-enlisted in on his return. He waited with growing desperation as the months passed and he penned bittersweet letters, analyzing every word to ensure he hadn’t betrayed himself in print. He waited and waited and waited, until he felt like he had spent his entire life waiting.

He didn’t know what else to do.

 

\-------

 

Although he had barely slept, Carwood still woke early, bleary eyed and exhausted. He was used to it after years of the boarding house and combat. Sometimes he thought he couldn't sleep past dawn if he tried, regardless of how long his night had been.

He got up and hobbled into his clothes. The bruising from the poltergeist had worsened exponentially over night; he felt like he could barely move, but knew that he needed to or the muscles would freeze up even worse. Wincing from the ache, he picked up his new watch, letting his thumb trace over the face for a moment before slipping it on his wrist. Then he left the room, not letting his mind linger on the letters he still needed to reply to.

Leland was already down in the kitchen making breakfast for their borders. He glanced up when Carwood entered, narrowing his eyes at him.

“What are you doing up so early?”

Carwood moved over to the coffee pot to get it started, throwing his brother a smile over his shoulder. “I've always been an early riser, Lee, you know that.”

“Well, yes, but you should at least try to take the opportunity to sleep in.” Leland hesitated, then continue more gingerly, voice losing its mocking tone, “You haven't got a hunt on right now. You can relax a little, maybe stay here for a couple days.”

Carwood paused in scooping the grounds. “Did Ma say something to you?”

Leland shot him a glare, flipping the bacon a bit more aggressively. “Is it really so hard to believe that I'd want my brother to actually stick around for a bit?”

Carwood looked down at the counter, abashed. “Sorry, Lee.”

“Ah, you're alright. But Ma's right, we've barely seen you since you got back.”

“I know,” Carwood said, “I'd be around more if I could but—”

“Yeah, with all the hunters who died in the war, we need everyone out there, I know, you've said it before.” Leland cut him off. “I-I guess I just wish things were different. Seems a poor welcome home after everything.”

Carwood swallowed hard. “I came home, Lee. That's more than a lot of boys can say.”

“I know, and I'll always be grateful you did.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, each focused on his task. Carwood stared blindly at the coffee pot. He felt like he was barely in the room, attached by the slightest thread to his own body. He jumped when Leland spoke again, the world outside the brewing coffee coming back into focus.

“What was it like over there?”

Carwood looked over at Leland, a frown on his face. Leland’s eyes darted over to him quickly before hurriedly glancing back at the food.

“Excuse me?”

“In Europe,” Leland clarified. His eyes darted to sneak a look at Carwood again and he realized that Ma must have forbade Leland to ask him about it. His brother had that look he remembered so well from childhood, when they were doing something they had been told not to: nerves and daring in equal measure. “They didn't tell us much, you know? All we had was the newsreels, but you know what those are like.”

“It's….not something I really want to talk about, Lee.” How could he talk about it? How could he possibly explain what war was like—the cold so freezing it felt like you would never move again, the smell of smoke and gore in the air, the lengths you would go to to save your men and having to watch them die all the same. It wasn't something Carwood could explain to someone who hadn't been there, even with everything hunters saw on a daily basis. Hell, he couldn't even explain it to himself.  And it sure as hell wasn't something he was going to burden his brother with.

“Okay, but if you do want to talk about it—”

“I think it’s about time for that bacon to come off,” Carwood interrupted, turning away to pull down some mugs to take out to the boarders. He hears Leland sigh quietly behind him and knew the subject was closed for now. Until the next time Leland’s curiosity overpowered his tact.

Carwood sighed himself, grabbing the coffee tray and walking into the attached dining room. If he knew hunters at all, their boarders were probably already up and waiting impatiently for their breakfast.

Sure enough, there were already a couple people seated at the table, staring bleary eyed at each other and mumbling some semblance of conversation. They all brightened up when they saw Carwood or, more likely, when they saw the coffee he was carrying. They descended on it as soon as he put it down.

“You're a godsend, Carwood,” Marie, who was seated closest to him, said tiredly, giving him an absent-minded wink. He was again reminded of Luz, who could find something to joke about even in the worst situations, and felt a tight twist in his chest.

Carwood forced a smile around it and snagged a chair, knowing that none of these hunters were awake enough or knew him well enough to see through it. “Well, if you hadn't spent the entire night drinking all our whiskey, you might be feeling a little differently.”

A chorus of groans went up around the table and Carwood felt his smile become a bit more genuine. Hunters were nothing if not predictable.

“Well, it's not as if it was getting much use from you. How a family full of hunters can have an untouched bottle of fine whiskey in their home, I will never understand.” David, a hunter who stopped by regularly, muttered, his eyes still squeezed shut against the sunlight beaming through the window.

“Can't say as I know, Dave. Guess we just never got in the habit.”

Leland walked into the room then, arms full with breakfast. Carwood stood quickly to help him with the door, trying to cover the way his thigh twinged painfully.

“Habit of what?” Leland asked over the appreciative murmurs and the soft clinking of cutlery. David, who seemed to be able to squint his eyes open as long as he was looking at bacon, snorted.

“Oh, Carwood was just regaling us with stories of the staid Lipton clan, able to resist all vice such as drink.”

Leland looked straight at Carwood, grinning as he sat down unashamedly in the chair that Carwood had just vacated. “Is that right? Well, then you'll all be shocked to learn that he does indeed have a vice, and a truly disgusting one at that.” Leland leaned forward and said in an exaggerated whisper, “Cigarettes. Picked it up from some fancy Frenchman.”

The entire table laughed while Carwood rolled his eyes, shoving Leland lightly on the shoulder before walking further down the table to grab an unoccupied seat. “I picked it up because I was in the army, and everyone smokes in the army.”

Norman, a hunter who'd served in Italy until he'd gotten his leg blown off and sent home, nodded gravely. “That's true, we all took smoking very seriously. Almost as seriously as drinking and women.”

“Now those I didn't pick up.” In more ways than one.

The table laughed again and devolved into separate conversations as the hunters woke up more with every gulp of coffee. Carwood managed to grab some eggs and sausage for himself and tucked in.

“Could you pass me the toast? Thanks,” the hunter to his left, Sally, said. Carwood looked at her more closely as he passed the rack. Sally was a real Rosie the Riveter kinda gal: she'd been a steel worker during the war, squeezing in hunts on the side between shifts. She was probably one of the strongest people Carwood knew; he bet she could give Bull a run for his money. So it can't have been anything pretty that bruised up her face like that and put that cast on her leg.

“You okay?” he asked, gesturing between her face and leg when she looked at him quizzically. She sighed, taking a bite of her breakfast before replying.

“Oh, I'm fine,” she said, “my pride’s hurt worse than anything. Hunt went a little sideways and the thing got the drop on me and got away.”

“You know what it is?”

“Think it's a demon, judging by the way it reacted to me spraying it with holy water.”

Carwood blinked in surprise. Demons were very rare; every hunter how to protect themselves from them and some even claimed to have run into one but most agreed that demons were not often seen away from the crossroads they dealt at. And they were supposedly impossible to kill: he'd heard some fanciful stories about a gun that was supposed to do the trick but as far as he knew the only way to stop a demon was to exorcise it, which was no easy feat.

But Sally was an experienced hunter, not one to jump at shadows. If she said it was a demon, he believed her.

“Do you know where it was heading?”

“Well,” she said, “I tracked it from Florida up into Georgia so I'm thinking it's still heading north. I saw a paper from near Charlotte talking about cattle mutilations in the area, so that seems a likely stopover. But it's hard to say for sure without someone checking it out. And I bet its swapped hosts since I ran into it. Honestly,” she continued, glancing over at him. “ that's part of the reason I came here. I figured there’d be someone here who could pick up where I left off and finish the thing.”

Carwood nodded. “I'm sure there is.” He stared at the remains of his breakfast contemplatively for a moment. “Actually, I can probably take it off your hands. We definitely have the resources for a demon hunt.”

Sally looked at him closely, in the same piercing way Dick had when he was sussing out something you were trying your best to hide. “I heard you just got back from a hunt.”

Carwood nodded. “Just trying to keep busy, ma'am.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, then snorted. “Hell, if you want it, it's yours. I would've asked you but I figured you'd be taking it easy.” She threw him a crooked grin. “Everyone knows you're one of the best hunters out there, following in your daddy's footsteps.”

Carwood ducked his head, poking around at the food on his plate to avoid Sally’s eyes. “That's kind of you to say.”

“Well, it’s the truth. I'd be more than happy to pass it along to you.”

“Then I'd best get my things together and head out before it gets too much of a head start,” Carwood said, gathering his dishes together and standing. His hip twinged painfully again. The upcoming drive wouldn't be kind to him.

He was careful not to look at his brother when he left the room, but it didn't matter; Leland followed him into the kitchen as he was washing up.

“You're already leaving, aren't you?” he asked, accusation thick in his voice.

Carwood just nodded, using his washing to avoid making eye contact. This wasn't a conversation he ever wanted to have but it certainly wasn't one he wanted to have eye to eye.

Leland snorted bitterly but didn’t say anything more, just put his own dishes down by the sink and walked over to the icebox to pull out some things for lunch. The silence was oppressive; Carwood could feel it pressing on him, sinking into his skin and rooting him to the floor. Numbly, he picked up Leland’s dishes and put them in the soapy water to wash. At least he could wash some dishes, as much as he was failing at every other aspect of being a family member.

Finally, Leland finished at the icebox. He put the items he had removed gently on the table. It seemed a bizarre contrast to the anger that Carwood could practically see emanating off him, like a mirage in the distance on a hot day. It was so different from how Leland would act when angry as a child—slamming doors, stomping his feet, huffing angry breaths and shouting angrier words. This transformation from loud, combustive anger to stewing, festering silence was something Carwood had missed while he was away, whether during the war or his many absences afterward.

But it seemed that combative side of Leland hadn’t quite disappeared because he finally spoke. Carwood was almost glad for the break in silence, except that any conversation while his brother was this angry promised to be a painful one.

“Y’know something?” Leland asked, pausing as if he was thinking better of his words before forging on anyway in a strangled voice. “Sometimes, I feel like you never actually came home from the war.”

Carwood gently placed the plate he’d finished washing in the drying rack and let himself lean on the counter for a moment to breathe through the ache in his chest, ignoring the way his wet hands made water drip down the counter. Leland never had learned how to pull his punches.

The hell of it was, Carwood had absolutely nothing to say to that. No way to defend himself or refute it. Because sometimes, he felt like he hadn’t come home from the war either; he felt like his spirit was still over there, haunting some nameless battlefield forever, unable to pass on because his body was still living.

Carwood could feel Leland staring at him, his gaze boring into him, waiting for him to speak. He resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders, to tense, to flinch. He hadn’t flinched under German artillery fire, he hadn’t flinched a few months ago when facing down a slavering werewolf. He wouldn’t flinch away from his own brother.

Suddenly, Leland spoke again, obviously growing weary of Carwood’s continued silence. “Is it because of us?”

“What?” Carwood managed to say. His voice sounded choked and strained and he tried to clear his throat quietly.

“Is it because of us,” Leland said again, “why you’re always leaving.”

At that, Carwood finally found the strength to turn. His heart sank when he saw the poorly hidden hurt on Leland’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Leland laughed bitterly, throwing his hands in the air. “Well, I don’t know, Carwood. You used to be happy here. I mean, you went on the occasional hunt, but you were always happy to come home. Now it’s like I can see how much you want to leave as soon as you walk in the door.”  Leland swallowed and then continued in a small voice. “Is it our fault, mine and Ma’s? Are we not enough?”

Carwood had only heard him sound so wretchedly unsure of himself a few times: after their Pa died and Ma was still in the hospital and before Carwood shipped out for Toccoa. A surge of shame and self-loathing went through him for putting that fear in his brother again.

“No, no, God no, Lee, that’s not—you and Ma are perfect. I—” Carwood swallowed. “I don’t know what I would have done after the war if the two of you hadn’t been there.”

“Then why can’t you just stay?” Leland asked, sounding so lost it tore at Carwood’s heart.

“I—” Carwood started to explain but couldn’t think of anything to say. How could he explain the sense of disconnection he had, the restlessness that lurked under his skin no matter where he was? It wasn’t something that Leland would understand; it wasn’t something Carwood even understood. Why did he feel the need to run toward danger and the possibility of death after so long spent doing the same thing in Europe?

In the end, he settled for telling the part of it that he understood. “I have to go. I’d stay if I could, Lee, please believe that.”

Leland didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at him with wounded eyes. Then he sighed, his gaze drifting to the floor. “Fine. Do what you want. But you still have to tell Ma you’re leaving.”

“I know,” Carwood said heavily.

Leland shook his head wearily and left the room without another word, leaving Carwood alone with his guilt.

 

\----------

 

The first time Carwood realized how dangerous the supernatural actually was, he watched his father die.

It was meant to be a routine hunt, one of the first he ever went on. “Something straightforward to help you learn the family trade,” Pa said. Then he had packed up his pick-up and his son and set out on the road north, Ma and little Leland waving goodbye from the porch.

The hunt had been fairly simple. They arrived in Baltimore in the early evening, sent a quick telegram back home to let them know they got in alright and settled into the hunt. Several bodies had been found in one of the poorer neighbourhoods. Pa had sat Carwood down at the little table in the hotel with a stack of newspapers and told him to read them and pick out any suspicious details. At first, Carwood had tried to be quick about it, wanting to impress his father. He pointed out seemingly inconsequential details for what felt like hours, hoping each time he spoke that he would receive a quiet nod and smile. It’s what he remembered most about his father: the way he could convey feelings without saying a word and how the warmth of his regard could stay with Carwood for days at a time.

Finally, Pa nodded at Carwood and said those words that he always so desperately wanted to hear. “Good job, son.”

That had been most of Carwood’s contribution to that hunt; Pa had just wanted him to get used to the routine of the hunt, the steps that had be taken in order to find monsters. He hadn’t wanted Carwood to be involved in any of the more gruesome parts of the hunt, especially the actual take-down itself. At ten years old, he had found it frustrating and thought it an indication of his father’s doubt in his ability. As an adult, he knew that Pa had just been trying to protect him from the family tradition as long as possible.

Pa had the entire thing wrapped up in two days. They arrived in the early afternoon, Pa spoke to the police in late afternoon regarding the deaths, and came back at the hotel room with the news that Carwood had been right about it being a vampire nest. He had explained that it was safest to go after vampires during the day when they were sleeping, so Carwood and his father spent the evening out on the town. It was the first time Carwood had been out of West Virginia and he was eager to see as much of the new and exciting city as possible. They walked the streets for what must have been hours, finally stopping at a diner for a late dinner. Pa even caved and ordered two big slices of pie. Carwood finished his and made eyes at his father’s half-finished piece until he slid it over. Carwood grinned at him, mouth and hands sticky, happy to have his father’s complete attention. Pa had been absent a lot during Carwood’s childhood, spending much of his time on the road hunting. He had never missed a holiday or a birthday, but it had still been a novelty to have Pa all to himself for an extended period of time. If he was being honest, it was the biggest reason he was excited to learn to hunt, knowing that it would mean long stretches of time on the road with Pa.

After dinner, they headed back to the hotel room, going slow so Carwood wouldn’t feel sick from all the dessert he’d had. Pa made him get ready for bed when they arrived, watching him closely as he brushed his teeth and washed his face. Pa pulled back the covers on one of the beds and they played cards for a couple hours until Pa declared it bedtime. He tucked Carwood in and sat beside him until he fell asleep, stroking his hair.

Despite everything that happened after, Carwood still remembered it as one of the happiest nights of his childhood.

Carwood woke up in the morning to an empty room and a note from Pa saying he would be back soon after taking out the nest. Carwood packed their bags and placed them by the door, playing cards with himself and fighting to feel pleased that his father had brought him along at all rather than resentful he'd been left behind. Finally, his father returned, bloody but triumphant and Carwood felt the knots of anxiety in his stomach unravel.

Pa seemed in a rush to get out of Dodge. He quickly changed out of his bloody clothes and went to check out while Carwood loaded the truck. They stopped for an early lunch on the way out of town and heading back home.

“Remember, Carwood,” Pa said between bites as he drove down the highway, “it's important you leave quickly after finishing a hunt. You get in, you do the job, and you leave. Don't linger.”

Carwood nodded, attention rapt on his father in the hopes he'd say something more. But Pa didn't; he just lapsed into a heavy silence, thoughts obviously on something else. Carwood eventually turned to look out the window, daydreaming about the next hunt he'd go on with his Pa.

They arrived home in the early evening, rumbling down the driveway in a cloud of dust. Ma came out of the house to greet them, ruffling Carwood’s hair and giving Pa a kiss on the cheek. Leland toddled out behind her, clutching his rabbit toy in one hand and latching onto Carwood with the other. When Carwood tried to remember them all together as a family, he always came back to that moment: happy together one last time before the nightmare that followed.

The evening passed like usual and Carwood went to sleep in the room that he and Leland still shared at the time. He awoke hours later in the dead of night to the most chilling, blood curdling screams he had ever heard. He wouldn’t hear human voices make sounds like that again until he landed in Normandy on D-Day.

He barely remembered jumping out of bed, or picking Leland up and shutting him in the warded closet. Then he sprinted down the stairs, only pausing to grab the hunting knife he had secretly purchased with the allowance he had been saving for almost a year.

The first thing he noticed was the blood, splattered up the wall like paint. Splayed nearby was the body of one of their boarders, a hunter his parents were particularly fond of who stayed with them often. Carwood stared for a long moment before the sound of pained grunting in the other room drew him onward. Carwood gingerly stepped around the corpse on the floor, trying not to look at his glassy, staring eyes for too long.

Carwood crept into the living room and froze again, eyes zeroing in on the form in the corner. His mother was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, hands groping weakly for the machete beside her. Without a single thought, Carwood ran from the doorway to her side, not knowing where to put his hands, not noticing the blood soaking into the knees of his pyjamas, only knowing he had to stop the bleeding.

She didn't seem to notice he was there, so fixed was she on getting the machete. It wasn't until he called to her, voice wavering, that she looked up at him. He almost wished she hadn't because he had never seen her so scared before. He hadn't even known his mother, always so collected and competent, was capable of such fear.

“Carwood, baby,” she said. “You need to go back upstairs right away. Get your brother and hide.”

“But—” he started to protest, panic gathering thick in his throat and freezing his limbs. There was some kind of sound coming from behind him, wet and tearing, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was his mother, lying here with her warm blood on his hands.  

“Right now, baby. It's not safe down here, you need to go back upstairs.” The fear in her eyes had faded into a deadly seriousness that he had never seen in her face before.

Carwood wavered, caught between his need to stay and help his mother and the instinct to obey her. Then, he heard the ripping sound again from across the room.

He froze, staring at Ma while the sounds continued. She shook her head at him, her eyes widening.

As if moving through water, he started to turn. He could see Ma shaking her head frantically out of the corner of his eye but he couldn’t pay attention to that right now. Right now, all he could see was Pa.

He was sprawled on the floor, one arm flung out towards where Carwood and Ma were. He was staring at them, eyes blank and empty and jaw hanging open slackly. At first, Carwood didn't even realize he was dead. But the way his throat and stomach were ripped open made that fact a cold, hard reality, not to mention the sea of blood.

But his body was still moving, even though all light had long fled his eyes. There was a man crouched over him, up to his wrist in his father's insides, calmly ripping him to pieces like a child would a flower.

Carwood didn't think he had made any kind of noise, but the bloodstained man, the one who had killed Pa, looked up sharply, straight at him, as if he was more bloodhound than man. Then Carwood say the rows of fangs that lined his mouth and realized that description was more apt than he had thought.

“You were there, I recognize your scent,” the vampire said. He stood slowly, eyes fixed on Carwood. “You're his son, aren't you? I almost wish he was still alive to watch you die.”

Ma made a quiet sound like an injured animal behind Carwood and he could hear her fingers clawing at the floor as she tried to reach the machete. But it felt like all of this was happening from very far away. All he could focus on was Pa, lying there so still and so silent in a way he had never been in life, no matter how quiet he had been.

Then Carwood remembered the knife tucked into his pants and that was all he needed to stand up, placing himself between the monster and Ma.

The vampire laughed, the sound loud and almost completely covering Ma’s voice telling him to go, to run.

“You think you can fight me? Even after I killed your parents?” the vampire said, then shrugged, casually stepping over his father's corpse. “I'll slaughter you, just like he slaughtered my son. Then I'll drink you dry and get back to talking your family apart piece by piece.”

Carwood didn't say anything, his throat frozen and his concentration on keeping his body loose and ready. It was probably the only reason he managed to dodge the vampire’s first charge.

Pa’s words from the other night ran through his head as he dodged again, trying to lead the monster away from Ma. Carwood had been curious about if the legends about vampires got anything right. Pa had laughed and shaken his head. “Garlic, crosses, and wooden stakes don't do much against vampires other than make them angry. You can use dead man's blood to slow them but if you wanna kill one, it's got to be the head.”

In the end, the only reason Carwood survived was because of Leland. Carwood had just ducked a swipe, feeling the sweat pouring down his face when he heard a cry from the hallway. The vampire immediately looked over and Carwood use his distraction to his advantage. He went low, slamming his shoulder as hard as he could into the vamp’s knee. The vampire staggered, his leg buckling with a grunt. And as he fell, Carwood thrust his knife up and through his neck.

The vampire fell to his knees, shock written across his face. Carwood shoved his shoulders, pushing him to the floor. Then he knelt on his chest, knees digging into the vamp’s shoulders to keep him still, pressed a palm to his forehead to keep the fangs away, and started to saw.

When he looked back up, covered in blood, he finally noticed his brother frozen in the doorway. He had no way of knowing how long he had been pulling his knife through bone and muscle, how long it had been since he’d woken up to his mother’s screaming, how long it had been since she’d fallen silent. All he knew was a curious calm as he got up and led his brother out of the room to the kitchen. He wrapped Leland in a blanket before, unsure of what else to do, he got up and called the police.

To this day, he was still unsure of what he said to the dispatcher. All he knew was that after placing the call, he went back to Ma, sitting in the blood pooled at her side and holding her limp hand.

Luckily, the officer dispatched to their home was a friend of his parents, one who knew about the hunting life and helped where he could. Upon arriving, he took in the scene and set about covering it up.

Carwood came back to himself in the waiting room at the closest hospital, a blanket wrapped around him and Leland, who was beside him. Leland’s shoulders were hitching with sobs and Carwood pulled him closer, resting his face in his brother’s hair while they waited.

Eventually, Aunt Edith came and took them home. Miraculously, the bloody scene of the living room was completely gone. Carwood almost wouldn’t believe it had ever happened if it wasn’t for the way his hands could still feel the motion of the knife, the resistance of bone against the blade. The sense memory took days to fade, even as Ma came home from the hospital in her new wheelchair and they put an empty casket in the ground for Pa after salting and burning his body on a hunter’s pyre.

Watching that casket lower, Carwood remembered thinking, this is the hardest thing you have ever done. It was that thought that carried him through the worst moments of his life: the hunts gone wrong when civilians died, the darkest moments in the war when he almost couldn't bear the thought of taking another step. It reverberated in the back of his mind when he jumped out of a plane, when he killed his first German soldier, when he tried to keep Easy together through sheer force of will. You've done harder things than this.

 

\--------

 

The conversation with Ma wasn’t as hard as Carwood feared; she just looked at him for long moment then nodded in acceptance, saying he should get his things together if he wanted to get on the road while he still had a decent amount of daylight. Carwood had nodded, feeling heavy, and went up to his room to gather his things.

After a long moment of hesitation, the letters from Ron and Dick went into his bag, as did the book Ron had sent him. Then he stopped by the supply room to replenish his supply of salt, holy water, and goofer dust. He didn’t think he would run into any hell hounds, but one could never be certain what would happen when it came to demons.

By the time he had grabbed everything he needed and gone over the notes Sally had on the demon and its movements, it was almost past noon. He was itching to get on the road and start the hunt, wanting to leave the awkwardness and pain of the morning behind him and be back on the open road.

Ma and Leland were waiting for him by the back door when he arrived with his bags, Ma with a small, sad smile and Leland leaning against the wall with a sullen look. Carwood swallowed and put his bags on the ground, leaning over to give Ma a hug.

She wrapped her arms around him tightly, holding on for a few long moments before letting him go with a kiss on the cheek. She thrust the paperbag in her lap into his hands. “I know you want to get on the road as soon as you can, so I packed you something to eat.”

Carwood nodded, ducking his head and holding the bag a little tighter. “Thanks, Ma.”

“You’re welcome, dear. Just make sure you actually take a break to eat it, alright? And don’t drive for too long, it’s not good for you.”

“I know, Ma. I’ll be careful.”

She smiled at him, so sweetly it made him look away. “I know you will, honey. You always are. Just make sure you come home soon.”

Carwood nodded again, forcing himself to look at her. “I will, Ma. I’ll come home soon and stay a bit, I promise.”

Next to them, Leland snorted. Carwood ducked his head again, guilt pressing heavily on him. Then he gathered himself and looked up at Leland. “I’ll see you soon. Take care of yourself and Ma, alright?”

Leland looked at him for a long moment then nodded seriously. After a momentary debate, Carwood reached out and patted him on the shoulder. To his relief, Leland leaned into it rather than away. Carwood held his shoulder for a long moment, feeling a mix of pride between the man his brother had become in his absence and guilt that he had do it alone, before he stepped away.

After one last look at his family, Carwood picked up his bag and walked over to his truck. He got in, rubbing his thumb over the face of his watch before starting the truck up and pulling away down the driveway.

His first destination would have to be where Sally had fought the demon to see if he could find any clues about where the demon had gone after the fight, which meant a long haul to Macon, Georgia. He drove until the sun started to set, only stopping occasionally for gas. He nibbled on the food Ma had packed him, listening to Benny Goodman and the Andrew Sisters come in and out through the fuzz on the radio. He found the landscape oddly familiar, reminding him of the train ride to Toccoa all those years ago. Finally, his eyelids feeling heavy, he pulled into a diner outside Yuma to get a bite to eat before he found a place to stop for the night. If he could keep up the same pace tomorrow he should arrive in Macon before sundown and be able to get a start on locating this thing.

The diner was about half way full, it being the tail end of the dinner rush. He managed to snag a booth for himself, heaving his bag onto the seat next to him.

The waitress stepped up beside his table, the smile on her face doing a passable job at hiding the weariness lingering in her eyes. “Good evening,” she said, placing the menu on the table, “and welcome to Joe’s Diner. Anything I can get you to start off?”

Carwood smiled back at her warmly, absently noting the silver necklace hanging from her neck. “Just some coffee for right now, thanks.”

She smiled back, a little more real this time. “Of course. When you’re ready to order, just give me a holler. My name’s Betty.”

“Thanks, Betty.”

Betty returned quickly with his coffee, dropping it off with another smile. Carwood watched her head over to one of the other tables, then spread out the notes Sally had given him across the table.

She had picked up the demon in Orlando after finding newspaper articles about the freak storms in the area. There had been reports of a missing person who had been acting strange right before he disappeared which taken together seemed to imply demon possession. She tracked the demon up to Macon, Georgia where the police had found the body of the missing person, apparently a suicide, and another person had gone missing. It was there that she’d manage to catch sight of the demon and it had injured her.

Sally was a very professional hunter; she took meticulous notes, had even included a picture she had found of the demon’s current host. It was the best information Carwood could ask for; he had gone off of much less on previous hunts.

But even so, it was slightly out of date: Sally had been injured almost a week ago and the demon almost definitely hopped hosts after their fight. Carwood turned to the newspapers he had picked up whenever he stopped for gas, scanning them for any reports of missing persons, unexplained storms or mutilated animals. If Sally was right and the demon was still heading north, there might be some mention of its activities in the area.

Just as he flipped open the first paper, Betty stopped by his table. “How's the coffee?”

“Good, thanks,” Carwood said.

“Anything to eat?” she asked.

“I'll just get whatever's on special tonight, thanks.”

Betty nodded with another smile. “Coming right up.”

After she left, Carwood turned back to the newspapers. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any pertinent information: no mention of sudden lightning storms or strangely desecrated animals. The only thing that caught his eye was an article talking about a death that was similar in nature to a death in the same town a month before. Carwood double checked the dates mentioned in the article and mentally reviewed the moon cycle. He was right; both deaths had taken place during the full moon. He made a mental note to send a telegram back to the boarding house about a likely werewolf in the area and set the paper aside.

He sat for a long moment, studying the other diners as he thought about his next steps. There wasn't much else he could do tonight. He would stop for the night and get an early start tomorrow, making Macon as quickly as possible. Hopefully he could pick up the demon’s trail from there, but he wouldn't know until he got there.

In the meantime, he turned toward the letters he had packed away, pulling out some blank paper. After a quick re-read, he set about replying to Dick’s letter. It was mostly full of vague details, talking about how well his family and the boarding house were doing and some news he had heard from the boys. He couldn't be any more specific, as much as he wanted to. During the war, he had always known that he could rely on Dick for anything, no matter how outlandish or difficult. The closest he had ever come to asking something of him was the night he had confided in Dick his doubts about Dike, but it had been a comfort that the option was available to him. Now, that comfort was gone.

With a heavy sigh, Carwood finished the letter to Dick and set it back in his bag. He looked at the letter from Ron for a long moment before picking it up to read again. It was just as hard to do the day after.

He sighed again and pulled over a new piece of paper.

_Dear Ron,_

_Thank you for words and your gifts. I haven't read the book before and will let you know what I think. Thank you especially for the watch. I was deeply saddened when I lost the previous one and I am happy to be wearing a watch gifted from you again._

_My family is doing well, as is the boarding house. I expect business to pick up as Thanksgiving and Christmas approach, as you said. I don't know if I will be as busy as you are in your new position (congratulations again) but it will certainly be busier than usual._

_I am very happy to learn you have taken my advice. Although you will protest my applying the label of ‘lonely' to you, I worry that you do not spend enough time with others. I do not want you to deny yourself friendships and connections with other people. I know you find it difficult, but I believe it is worth the effort. You are a very special person, Ron. I want other people to see that too._

_As for your advice to me, I fear I cannot take it. My responsibilities at the boarding house are greater than I anticipated they would be during the war and I cannot set them aside. I know you understand this._

_That said, I thank you for your kind words. I have found my return home more difficult than I anticipated. I know my family wants me to be open about my experiences during the war. How can I explain everything that we did, all that we saw? I do not know if you feel the same but—_

Carwood huffed, annoyed with himself, and crumpled the page. It said too much and too little at the same time; there was no way he could send that to Ron.

He started to pull out a fresh piece of paper went Betty arrived with his meal. She set the plate down in front of him and gestured to his coffee mug. “Would you like a refill?”

Carwood hadn't even noticed that he had drained his cup. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

Carwood tucked into his meal while Betty went to retrieve the coffee pot. She smiled at him as she poured. “I didn't want to bother you while you were so busy.”

“Oh, it's no bother.”

“Can I ask what you're working on? Seems pretty intensive.” Betty said, glancing over at his mound of newspaper.

Carwood shook his head, shoving his stack of papers and notes a little closer to his bag. “Oh, it’s nothing important, just doing some research for work.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to be going too well,” she said wryly. When he looked at her quizzically, she gestured to the crumbled piece of paper that was his first attempt at a letter to Ron.

Carwood ducked his head, using his fork to fiddle with his food. “That’s not for work, that’s a letter to a friend. Well, it was.”

Betty made a sympathetic noise. “Things a little rough with your friend?”

Carwood shook his head. “Not rough, just...distant, I suppose. At least for me.” He looked back up at Betty, feeling a little guilty. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you, I’m sure you must have better things to do than listen to me complain.”

Betty snorted and grinned at him. “That was complaining for you? Honey, you should hear some of my other customers. Speaking of, I don’t have a lot of those right now, so feel free to talk away.”

Carwood blinked and glanced around the diner. Sure enough, most of the other diners had cleared out, leaving only himself and another man at the counter nursing a cup of coffee and reading a novel. Still he hesitated, unsure, before chiding himself sternly. There was nothing untoward going on here, supernatural or otherwise. He knew what that felt like and this wasn't it. This was just a kind woman looking for some friendly conversation at the end of a long day. Something Carwood could use himself.

He looked back up at Betty and smiled again, gesturing at the seat across from him. “Well, if I’m going to be talking your ear off, you should probably sit down.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Betty said cheerily and took a seat. She let out a long sigh, closing her eyes in bliss. “Feels good to be off my feet.”

“I bet,” Carwood said, remembering well how your feet started to feel almost numb to sensation after being on the move for too long.

Betty rolled her eyes, topping his coffee mug. “Now who’s complaining,” she said self-deprecatingly, throwing him a laughing glance.

“If what I’m doing doesn’t count as complaining, I don’t think that does either.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s kind of you to say.”

Carwood laughed too. Her smile reminded him strongly of Peggy, but the sly look in her eye was just like Nix’s.

“C’mon, let’s not-complain together,” Betty said, still laughing. “And don’t forget to eat your food, I can promise it doesn’t taste better cold.”

Carwood took a quick bite, and she snorted. “Just like my youngest son. Guess you really don’t grow out of it.”

Carwood huffed a laugh. “How old is he?”

Betty smiled sweetly, gaze turning inward. “He just turned four. Born just before his daddy shipped out.”

“And your husband?” Carwood asked, hesitantly.

Betty grinned. “Came home safe and sound, thank God.”

“Good,” Carwood said, feeling very relieved. He would hate to think that someone as obviously kind and generous as Betty was hiding her grief while extending her kindness to others.  

Betty leaned forward, looking at him closely. “How about you, did you serve? You have that same look about you.”

Carwood carefully didn’t ask exactly what ‘look’ she meant, all too aware of the scar across his cheek. “I did, yes.”

“Is that how you met your friend?”

“Yes, he was my commanding officer for the latter part of the war.”

“And was he a good one?” she asked.

“He was one of the best,” he said, “I wish we had had him earlier.”

“Seems like you were close,” Betty said carefully, looking at him in the same way Ma had when he was young and she was trying to pry how he was feeling out of him.

Carwood hesitated again, his instinctual urge to misdirect and obfuscate clogging his throat. He pushed past it—what did it matter if he was honest with this woman? He was never going to see her again. It wouldn't hurt to tell the truth, or as much of it as he ever could, just this one time.

“We were, he was...very kind to me,” Carwood said, thinking of the numerous times Ron had quietly taken care of him, from the small things like giving him a lingering look when he was feeling unsteady to the larger things like a gifted watch and gentle words he didn’t felt like he deserved.

“So, what’s changed?”

Carwood took a moment to sip his coffee, using it to think over his response. “I guess it’s my job more than anything. It requires a fair amount of secrecy. And the physical distance doesn’t help.” He looked at Betty ruefully. “It’s a long drive from West Virginia to Boston.”

“That it is,” she said. “Have you seen him since you got back stateside?”

Carwood tried to smile, but thought it felt too bitter to be reassuring and dropped it. “I haven’t managed to find the time. And he’s...shy, when it comes to friendship. He won’t come out unless I invite him.”

“Well, there’s your answer right there,” Betty said kindly. “Just ask him to come out and visit you.”

Carwood shook his head. “It’s not that simple, it’s—” he sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m doing a bad job of explaining this. And taking up all your time.”

Betty snorted, folding her arms on the table. “Listen, honey, if I didn’t want to be over here talking to you, I would’ve gotten up and left by now.” Carwood couldn’t help but laugh and Betty smiled back at him, before her expression took a more serious turn and she leaned back towards him again.

“Listen, you seem like a sweet young man, and God knows you’re polite, so I’m going to give you the same advice that I’ve given my girlfriends when they’re fretting themselves silly over someone.” Betty looked at him for a long moment, in the same way that Peggy did before she said something like _Carwood, what on Earth is the point of this little charade of ours if you won’t let yourself have the things you want?_ Carwood sat up a little straighter.

Finally, she spoke. “Whether you invite your friend out to see you or go to see him isn’t really the important thing. The most important thing you need to do is be honest with him. If you’re honest, everything else will just fall into place. But if you’re not, this distance you feel is never going to disappear.”

Carwood swallowed heavily, and glanced back down at his plate. “I know.”

She smiled at him kindly and starting to speak again before glancing quickly over at the counter. “Looks like Reggie wants to settle up,” she said, getting up, “I’ll be right back.” Then she left to speak to the man at the counter who was looking around the diner in a lost manner.

Carwood watched her go before looking back down at his plate. He knew she was right. He would never be able to cross the chasm that was growing between him and Ron, between him and everyone he knew, until he could bring himself to be honest. In a way, he had been lucky so far. He didn’t think Ron had noticed yet how far away Carwood felt, how difficult he found it reply to his letters and keep in some kind of contact. Or if Ron had noticed, he hadn’t mentioned it in his letters. Of course, it wasn’t something that he would, Carwood acknowledged with a sick feeling. More than likely, Ron would assume he had somehow driven Carwood off or caused him to lose interest in their friendship. Ron always seemed so surprised whenever Carwood sought him out just to spend time with him, although he tried to hide it, as if he wasn’t used to a person simply wanting to be around him without an ulterior motive. It had always made Carwood sad and angry at the people who had made Ron feel that way. He hated to think that he would just be the latest in a line of people to hurt Ron like that.

Carwood forcefully turned his mind away from his thoughts and turned back to his dinner, although his appetite had faded considerably in the last couple of minutes. He had been planning to stop for the night but now he wanted to get on with the hunt as soon as possible and he’d need the fuel if he was going to drive through the night. And, he thought, glancing over at where Betty was greeting some customers who had just walked in, if he finished his dinner and settled his bill, he wouldn’t need to find some subtle way to change the topic of conversation. It probably made him some kind of coward to run away from a sweet woman who was just being kind to a stranger out of the goodness of her heart, but Carwood was becoming more and more acquainted with his own cowardice in the last year. One more incident wouldn’t tip the scales at this point.

 

\--------

 

Carwood’s first hunt after the war was a disaster.

When he first returned from the war, he hadn't thought that he would return to hunting immediately. Deep down, he had hoped that maybe he wouldn't have to return to hunting at all, that maybe he could even go to university eventually. It seemed almost unreal to think about doing something other than hunting with his life, but his years away had opened his eyes to a wider world. A dark and hurtful world, certainly, but a world that held things other than the monsters he had spent so long looking for around every corner.

He didn’t tell Ma and Leland about his half-formed plans; he wanted to wait for the proper moment, the instant in time which would somehow lead to them accepting the change in his path. As the days went by and he realized how few hunters were stopping by the boarding house, even while the amount of calls they were receiving for assistance and advice seemed to increase every day, he was glad he’d waited.

He was naive to think that the world wouldn’t change while he was gone. The war had been so consuming, taking every ounce of his attention and will to push himself and the company through, that he hadn’t had the energy to think of home all that often. When his mind had wandered back to his family, he’d hoped they were safe and happy, before forcing himself to think about supplies and ammo and the other minutiae of war that would let his boys live through one more day.

But the war had changed the hunting world, just as much as it had changed everything else. So many men had gone to fight and never come back. Carwood hadn’t been the only hunter to answer the call to serve his country, and many hadn’t been as lucky as he had been. That shortage, paired with an increase in supernatural activity, could mean the death of a lot of civilians. And Carwood had never been someone to stand aside when there was work to be done.

A few weeks after arriving in Huntington, Carwood casually asked if Leland needed any hunts picked up. Leland had haltingly told him about a possible case in Bloomington, Indiana, where a man had killed his best friend from childhood. Although it was tragic, there was nothing too strange about that. The strange part was that apparently the man claimed to have been told by his wife to kill his friend. His wife who had been dead for over a year. He was in police custody awaiting trial.

Carwood had nodded, finished his breakfast, then went to pack his bags. When he told Ma he was going on a hunt, she’d looked at him silently for a long moment. The same mixture of sorrow and pride she’d had when he’d told her he was joining the paratroopers seemed to deepen the wrinkles in her face.

“Your father would be proud of you,” she said finally, and wrapped him up in a gentle hug. Carwood had swallowed, squeezing his mother tight before picking up his bag and heading out on the road in the old pick-up he’d claimed as his own after he turned sixteen.

He made good time on the drive over and managed to arrive in the early afternoon. After getting a room at a nearby inn, he changed into his Sunday best, which he had never worn to an actual church service, and headed over to the police station and asked to speak to the supposed murderer. The Police Chief was skeptical at first but considering Carwood was asking as FBI Agent Campbell, it didn't take long to get in.

The interview was hard. James Burton sat hunched in a wooden chair, leaning forward protectively as if nursing a wound. He answered Carwood’s questions in a listless tone of voice, staring at the table blankly. He only looked up at Carwood’s face once during the entire interview, when he asked about Burton’s wife.

“She was there,” he said, quietly, sadly, “I know you don’t believe me, but it was her. She—she said I had to kill Greg, that if I loved her, I would do it. I love her so much, I couldn’t—” Burton cut himself off, eyes dropping to stare at the table again. He didn’t speak again, no matter how Carwood gently prodded him.

The Police Chief was still leaning against the door outside the interview room when Carwood stepped out. “Told you you wouldn’t get anything out of him.”

Carwood resisted the urge to sigh. “What do you think of his story about seeing his wife?”

The Chief’s mouth thinned. “I don’t know what to think. Marianne’s been dead for over a year. It’s a shame; James finally seemed to be getting over it. Now he suddenly goes nuts, and poor Gregory pays the price.” He shook his head, sighing heavily.

“They were close?” Carwood asked.

“Thick as thieves. James was real broken up after Marianne died. Figured if anyone could pull him through it alright, it would be Gregory.” The Chief squinted at Carwood. “You got any other questions?”

“Not right now, but I’d like to see where Gregory died.”

The Chief snorted. “Suit yourself. I’ll have someone take you over.”

The Burton residence was nice, a small, welcoming home with a white fence and a well-maintained yard. It seemed peaceful, until you walked into the kitchen and say the bloodstains that had yet to be wiped away.

Carwood took his time poking around the scene but didn’t find any clues to tell him anything he didn’t already know. Although it would have been nice to find a shed skin to confirm, the monster was almost definitely a shifter, which meant he had his work cut out for him if he wanted to catch the thing before it moved on or ruined someone else’s life.

He hitched a ride with the police officer back to the main part of town, deciding to grab something to eat and regroup. He spent his meal alternating between scanning the map of the town he’d picked up and watching the eyes of the people passing by him in the gathering dusk, almost hoping to spot the signature retinal flare of a shifter in the passing headlights.

It was fully dark by the time Carwood made it back to his room, the January cold sneaking into his lungs. He checked his salt line absently as he entered his room; it remained unbroken and he felt himself relax a bit. Salt wouldn't do much against a shifter but at least he wouldn't have to deal with any restless spirits at the same time.

He spent the night pouring over the map and everything he knew about the case. He was positive it was a shifter, shape changing to look like Burton’s dead wife, but he couldn’t understand the logic behind it. What did the shifter gain by convincing a man to kill his friend? Maybe it didn’t gain anything, Carwood thought with a twist in his gut; maybe it just wanted to watch a man destroy his own life.

He had finally turned in a few hours past midnight determined to get some rest. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours and when he finally managed to get to sleep he had nightmares of a shifter wearing Ron's face.

By the time dawn rolled around, Carwood was more than ready to get up. He got dressed and went over his notes until breakfast was served. There was nothing else for it: he'd have to search the surrounding areas thoroughly and hope he managed to find some remains of the shifter. Shifters often liked having a lair they could retreat to if need be. Hopefully Carwood would be able to scrounge up a location for it.

When 8 o'clock rolled around, he headed downstairs to eat. There was only one other boarder seated at the table, a man with dark hair that curled gently across his forehead. When Carwood entered the room, he looked up and studied Carwood gravely for a long moment before smiling slightly.

Everything about him reminded him so strongly of Ron, Carwood almost choked. Ignoring the chill going down his spine, Carwood took a seat, returning the other man's smile.

“Good morning. My name's Charlie, I'm staying here for a couple days. I don't believe we've met.” Charlie held his hand out for a shake.

Carwood shook his hand, smiling with a warmness he didn't feel. He felt like his skin was crawling where they touched, every nerve screaming that he was in danger. “Carwood. I had to take care of some things in town yesterday and got back late.”

Charlie nodded, still looking right at Carwood. When he let go, his fingers dragged softly over Carwood’s palm. “I know how it is. I'm in town on a job myself, so I haven't been around here too much.”

Carwood nodded, ignoring the way his palm was still tingling to reach across the table for the coffee pot. “Oh, really? What kind of work?” he asked, and just as he finished his sentence, his arm bumped against Charlie’s glass of juice, spilling it across the table and in Charlie’s lap.

Charlie pushed himself away from the table with shocked sound and Carwood rushed to grab some napkins to help clean up.

“I am so sorry,” Carwood said, injecting as much apology into his tone as he could. “I must be more tired than I thought, I always get clumsy if I don’t get enough sleep.” He started to pat at Charlie’s shirt as Charlie did the same. As he did, their hands brushed, Carwood’s wedding ring gently touching the back of Charlie’s hand.

He didn't react at all. No hissing, sizzling, or outcry as the silver of the ring brushed his skin. Charlie wasn't the shifter.

Carwood’s unease was immediately replaced with mortification. He started to pat at Charlie more vigorously, his stammered apologies now genuine. Charlie wave him off after a few moments with a smile.

“It's just a shirt, Carwood, don't fuss so much.” Charlie caught his eye again, “I have plenty more where this came from.”

Carwood nodded, unable to hold his eye for too long. He could still feel Charlie's eyes on him and it made him shift in embarrassment. Finally, after a long moment of silence, Charlie reached out and squeezed Carwood’s shoulder.

“I'll just go change,” he said, and left the room, his touch lingering just as it had when they shook hands. Carwood stared at the empty doorway for a long moment before turning back to the table to try and mop up his mess.

His efforts weren't very successful. The innkeeper came in, tutting at the mess, but waved away Carwood’s apologies.

“It's what tablecloths are for dear,” she said, “as long as Charlie's alright, I'm sure it's fine.”

Carwood frowned, but didn't say anything. Maybe Charlie had stayed here before and had built a rapport with her.

And besides, Carwood’s instincts obviously couldn't be trusted. He had been so positive that Charlie was acting suspiciously. Just because he had a more-than-passing resemblance to Ron and had a possibly more than friendly interest in him didn’t mean he was a monster out for Carwood’s blood. He was so keyed-up he was jumping at shadow and taking it out on innocent bystanders.

He chewed disconsolately on his toast before setting his breakfast aside half finished. he should go apologize, it was only right.

He asked the innkeeper for Charlie's room and she sent him upstairs with a smile. He hesitated outside the room before swallowing and knocking firmly on the door. He was a hunter and a paratrooper; he didn’t get nervous when knocking on the door of an attractive, oddly friendly man.

This determination lasted until Charlie opened the door in just his undershirt and trousers. Carwood immediately felt his embarrassment return, redoubling when he felt a fiery blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Carwood!” Charlie said brightly, a pleased smile on his face, “Please, come in." 

Carwood regained his wits enough to speak. “No, that's alright, I just wanted to apologize again—”

“Please, I insist! Come in,” Charlie said again, stepping back so Carwood could pass. Swallowing again, he ducked his head and eased past Charlie into the room.

Charlie swept past him to the armoire, letting his hand pass along Carwood’s back. Carwood kept his eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling to notice the way Charlie’s undershirt accented his broad shoulders, the way his hair was curling at the nape of his neck, the way his ass filled out his trousers.

Carwood grit his teeth and actually made himself look away as Charlie pulled a new shirt on. What on earth was the matter with him? He'd never noticed a man so physically and so quickly before, not even Ron.

And God, Ron. It felt like a betrayal to think of anyone else like this when he felt for Ron so strongly. Even though Ron didn't know how he felt and wouldn’t return his feelings even if he did, it still wasn't right.

“I was actually hoping you'd come up,” Charlie said. Carwood looked up when he spoke, trying not to look like he was watching him button up his shirt.

“Pardon?”

“Well,” Charlie went on, “you seemed so worried about the spill I wanted to make sure you knew it wasn't a big deal. Besides,” he continued, looking up from his buttons to slant Carwood a devastating grin. “That was a pretty neat trick with the silver.”

Any bizarre warmth Carwood had been feeling disappeared as his stomach dropped. “Excuse me?”

“If I hadn't been expecting something, I probably wouldn't have noticed. A silver wedding ring is very clever,” Charlie said, before giving Carwood a sharp glance. “I assumed we were in town for the same reason. The Burton murder?”

“You're a hunter,” Carwood said slowly, not quite believing it. Charlie nodded, a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth.

“That I am. And if I'd known another hunter was on the case, I wouldn't have bothered. God knows I've been having a hell of a time with it.”

Carwood couldn't say anything for a long moment, mortification clenching his stomach. Not only had he thought Charlie was the shifter, it turned out Charlie was a hunter trying to find it just like him. Carwood didn't think he would ever get the taste of his own foot out of his mouth.

Charlie, obviously able to see how embarrassed he was, ducked his head to hide his amusement. Carwood unwillingly felt endeared by the gesture.

“Like I said, it's alright.” Charlie said. “I can’t fault you for being thorough. Especially not someone from the famous Lipton clan.”

Charlie huffed a laugh at the look on Carwood’s face. “Carwood’s a distinctive name. And every hunter knows the story of the Liptons. Is it true your family first came to America hunting a werewolf pack?”

“That's how the story goes,” Carwood said, hoping his relief that Charlie had asked that question and not something else wasn’t too obvious. He was right that the Liptons were well known in the hunting community; after all, they had helped found it in America. But hunters were also champion gossipers, rivalling the Huntington knitting circle and the old men who liked to drink together on their porches and stare at passers-by. Carwood had lost count of the number of times some well meaning hunter looking for a good story had asked ‘is it true you killed your first vamp when you were ten?’ As if becoming a killer at so young an age and in so violent a manner was something to be proud of.

Charlie continued to smile, his eyes flicking up and down Carwood’s body. He felt himself shudder in the wake of his gaze. “That's damn impressive.”

There was a lull for a brief moment while Charlie continued to look at him and Carwood forced himself to look back, trying to fight off the blush he knew wanted to flood onto his face again. Finally, Charlie spoke again.

“Tell you want,” he said, “we're both here on the same case and I feel like it'd be a damn wasted opportunity to pass up hunting with you. How about we work this one together?”

Carwood should say no, find some way to politely extricate himself from the conversation and return to the hunt on his own. His parents had always taught him to be wary of hunters he didn't know. If he didn't know a hunter, it was probably because they weren't welcome at the boarding house, and if they weren't welcome there was a reason for that.

Which was why he was very surprised when he opened his mouth and said, “I think that'd be swell, thanks.”

They left the inn to get started and spent the rest of the day scouring the town, checking all the out of the way places a shifter might choose to lay low. Carwood had hunted shifters before and they usually hid in places like empty buildings and sewers to avoid the detection of the skins they shed. But Carwood and Charlie didn't find any sign of anything like that in any of the likely places.

The only thing that stopped Carwood being consumed by frustration was Charlie's company. He was a solid presence, absolutely serious on the hunt but with a dry sense of humour which would pierce through Carwood’s spiralling mood like sunshine through mist. He was persistent and incisive, suggesting new places to search every time they ran into a dead end. He was exactly the kind of hunter Carwood wanted at his back, and he found any reservations he had had fading under Charlie's steady gaze.

They stopped for an early dinner and then headed for the local drinking spot at Charlie's suggestion. It was a good choice; as the evening progressed and the locals got more into their cups, they'd be more likely to spill any gossip about people acting strange or unusual.

Carwood insisted on buying the first round, pushing the pint over to Charlie. “My final apology for this morning.”

Charlie huffed a laugh and raised his glass in salute. “Hell, I can't complain now. Thanks.”

Carwood nodded, taking a sip of his own beer as he surveyed the room. The place was just starting to fill up, the room seeming to heat up with the press of additional bodies. A cheer went up from the group of men over by the dart board, the sudden cacophony making Carwood twitch.

“Y’know, nothing's going to happen to you if you stop keeping watch.” Charlie's voice cut through the noise of the bar and Carwood looked back at him, swallowing heavily. He was beautiful in this light, his green eyes becoming dark and deep, cheekbones highlighted and his hair curling softly over on his forehead. He reminded Carwood so strongly of Ron in the church in Rachamps or how he looked when they did their paperwork together by lamplight, Ron grinning around a cigarette as he teased Carwood when he agonized over the proper sentence structure for his report. He could almost feel the weight of Ron's hand on his shoulder when he’d come over to read Carwood’s report over his shoulder, standing so close Carwood imagined he could feel Ron’s warmth pressed against his back. He was so caught up in the memory he almost missed what Charlie said.

“What?” he said, internally wincing at how dense he must sound.

Charlie looked at him for a long moment, a hint of a frown on his face. “Nothing. Just saying you don't always need to have your guard up. I know it's a hard thing to let go of.”

Carwood looked at him and understood the faint discomfort on Charlie’s face. “You served?" 

Charlie nodded. “In Europe. You?”

“Europe, same as you.”

Charlie nodded again, eyes flicking over to the increasingly boisterous group at the dart board before settling back on Carwood. “It's a hard thing, coming back from all that to this. Everything feels different but it's like no one else sees it. So you have to see it, and you do, around every corner.”

Carwood stared back at him, feeling some mix between anxiety for being so transparent and a strangled relief at this unlooked for understanding. “How do you stop?”

Charlie smiled at him softly, looking wry. “I'll let you know when I figure it out. The only thing I know is that it's easier with someone who understands what it's like.” And he slid his hand across the table, letting his fingers caress Carwood’s wrist.

Carwood unconsciously jerked his hand away, a spike of fear making his movements sharper than usual. His hand caught his drink as he pulled back, toppling it onto its side and sending beer spilling across the table. Carwood cursed and grabbed some nearby napkins to clean it up, refusing to look at Charlie as he did the same.

“I assume that wasn't on purpose this time.” Charlie said under his breath. Carwood shook his head, trying to focus on wiping up all the sticky alcohol.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Carwood said just as quietly, his gaze darting to other patrons in the bar. No one seemed to have noticed anything untoward, thank God.

“Sorry, I-I misread the situation, I didn’t mean anything by it—” Charlie stuttered, an undercurrent of fear thick in his voice. Carwood glanced around again before giving him a long look.

“You didn’t misread it,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the spill. The table was as clean as he was ever going to make it, but he needed to do something with his hands.

“Then—”

“You still shouldn’t have done that.”

They worked in silence for a long moment before Charlie spoke again, just as quietly. “There's someone else, isn't there."

“No.”

“But you want there to be.”

Carwood couldn't say anything, his longing for Ron in that moment so strong it struck him mute.

After a long moment, Charlie sighed and stood. “Let me get you another drink.” 

“You really don't have to—”

Charlie shook his head. “Please, I insist.”

Carwood watched him head to the bar for a long moment before looking away to add the napkin he'd been wringing to the pile of dirty ones they had made. He was acting like a complete idiot, taking his wildly fluctuating emotions out on someone whose only flaw was looking too much like someone Carwood was pining for. He was no expert in the formalities of affairs between men, but he had never handled something like this so gracelessly before. Of course, he had never had to handle something like this while in love with someone else.

Carwood let that thought settle, taking a deep breath to try to calm the pang it caused in his heart. By the time Charlie returned with the next round, Carwood had gathered himself enough to smile weakly and mumble his thanks, resolved to put an end to any flirtation like he should have as soon as he suspected Charlie might be interested.

Charlie waited until he took a polite sip before speaking. “Look, Carwood, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable—”

“You didn't,” Carwood said quickly, wanting to reassure Charlie and wipe away the discomfort he could see in his brow.

Charlie studied his face for a long moment. Whatever he was searching for he must have found, because his discomfort faded into ease, a satisfied light limning his features.

They finished their drinks in contented silence, Carwood barely noticing the noise from the group by the dart board. He found himself distracted by Charlie, studying the way he held his glass, the ghostly smudges his lips left on the rim. It felt like the champagne they had had in Berchtesgaden was running through his veins, bubbly and heating him from the inside.

When Charlie looked up and caught his eye, Carwood could only stare back. If it was possible, he had somehow become even more beautiful in the time that had passed. Carwood had a brief flash of another face, another set of intense eyes, before it faded and Charlie’s soft smile subsumed everything.

“Let's get back to the inn,” Charlie said, “we're not going to get anyway here.” Carwood nodded, a thrill going shooting up his spine at the thought of being alone with Charlie.

They settled their bill and walked back to the inn in silence. At one point they passed through a deserted part of the street and Charlie reached out to brush his fingers across Carwood’s wrist again. This time, he didn't flinch, briefly letting his eyes close to better feel it. Any decision he had reached at the bar had dissolved in the sea of Charlie's resolve. What did it matter if Carwood let himself enjoy this? Charlie drew his hand back, an endearingly smug look on his face.

Once they reached the inn, Carwood automatically followed Charlie up to his room. He ushered Carwood inside and closed the door, sliding the lock into place. He turned to grin at Carwood, reaching out to grab his hand and held it up to his face. Carwood felt breathless, shuddering when Charlie pressed a kiss to his palm. A brief thought flickered through his mind that he shouldn't allow this but it died under Charlie's all-consuming attention like a guttering candle.

“You,” Charlie said, pressing another kiss to Carwoods palm, “were a tough one to crack. With some people, I don't even need to use my venom, but you just wouldn't fall for me.”

Carwood didn't really understand what Charlie was talking about, but it didn't matter, as long he kept talking in that husky voice, kept looking at him like Carwood had impressed him just by existing.

Charlie pulled him deeper into the room tugging on his arm. Carwood followed, helpless to do anything else.

“Do you want to know why we had no luck finding that shifter today?” Charlie asked, spinning Carwood so he faced the mirror at the end of the room, looping his arms loosely around Carwood’s waist. “It's because there was no shifter. Only me.”

Carwood looked in the mirror and saw Charlie's face had changed. His skin was grey like putrid flesh, eyes sunken holes in his skull. It looked like the bottom half of his face had rotted away, leaving strings of flesh where his mouth should be. In the mirror, the hands currently rubbing across Carwood’s stomach became claws so vicious they looked like they could spill his guts on the floor with one stroke.

Then Charlie swung him back around and was himself again: perfect skin, beautiful eyes, and ever so slightly chapped lips that Carwood realized he desperately wanted to kiss.

“Burton was much easier than you,” Charlie said, face amused as he pulled Carwood closer. “One look at me and he was mine. But you—I think you're so used to denying yourself what you want most, you couldn't help but resist me.” Charlie pulled him close, pressing himself against Carwood. He tucked his face into Carwood’s jawline, inhaling deeply as Carwood tilted his head back to give him more access. “I wonder who I'll have you kill for me. Maybe this man you claim to be so fond of.”

Carwood stiffened then relaxed, the faint voice wailing in the back of his mind stifled by the way Charlie pressed his hand against his side and pressed a kiss to his temple. Charlie husked a laugh in his ear, hot breath making goosebumps rise on his arms.

“And you're still resisting me. Don't worry; a couple more doses of my venom will take care of that. Actually, let's start on that now,” and he tilted Carwood’s face toward him, eyes fixed on his lips. Carwood’s eyes fluttered closed in anticipation; he'd never wanted to be kissed by someone so badly in his life, not even—

But before they could, the door to Charlie's room burst open in a hail of splinters. Carwood placed himself between it and Charlie, covering his face with his arm as he searched for the threat. There was a man he vaguely recognized standing in the doorway, holding a long knife in one hand. After a second of confusion, Carwood placed the face: it was Jake, a hunter who stopped by the boarding house whenever he was in town. He had been good friends with Carwood’s father, and Ma was always so pleased when he managed to stop over and stay awhile.

“Carwood,” Charlie said sharply, calling his attention back, “he's here to kill me. You have to protect me.” Carwood looked at him for a moment and then nodded; he would do whatever it took to keep Charlie safe.

He turned back to Jake, who was looking at him with a pitying expression. “I'm real sorry about this, boy,” he said, before he stepped forward and punched Carwood in the face.

The fight was short and embarrassing. Carwood couldn't seem to commit to any of his movements: his body seemed to have a mind of his own, hesitating before he could land a hit and leaving him open for blows he knew he could have easily blocked. Jake managed to wrestle him to the ground, pinning him with his knees. He dragged his knife across one of Carwood’s shoulders, Carwood hissing as he felt his blood start to flow down his arm. Jake pressed him back down into the floor, flipping the knife in his hand before pulling his arm back to throw it with the unerring accuracy and grace Carwood had always associated with him.

As Carwood had known it would, the knife found its mark in Charlie's chest. Panic burst Carwood’s chest as he watched Charlie fall to his knees and crumple on his side. They locked eyes and Carwood watched as the light faded from them. And with it, faded any kind of feelings Carwood had had for him other than horror and revulsion.

Later, after he and Jake had burned the body, they huddled in Jake’s car while he explained. Charlie, or whatever his true name was, was a Σειρήν, or a siren. According to the lore, they poisoned their chosen victim with the venom in their saliva, then forced the victim to kill the people they loved to show their devotion to the siren.

“I'm not sure why they do it. Some kind of thrill seeking, I suppose,” Jake mused and Carwood fought off a shudder.

“I've never even heard of a siren before outside of stories. I didn't think they really existed.” Carwood muttered.

“Neither did I, until a few weeks ago. I've been tracking this one for awhile now, trying to catch up.” Jake looked at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don't beat yourself up about it, Carwood. From what I understand, it was probably displaced by the war. Other hunters have been saying the same thing, running into things that shouldn't even be in America.”

Carwood continued to look away, unable to take any kind of solace in Jake's assurances. If other hunters were aware of the influx of foreign monsters then he should have been too. What was the point of running something like the boarding house if he didn't even pay attention to what was going on in the hunting world? If he had only paid more attention, this whole mess would never have happened.

“Did anyone else die?”

“Carwood, don't—”

Carwood shot him a hard look. “Tell me the truth, Jake.”

Jake hesitated, then said, “No one you could have saved, son.”

Carwood hung his head, barely feeling Jake squeezing his shoulder.

“He made me as a hunter.”

Jake sighed. “He probably knew I was after him and was waiting for a hunter to show up.”

“He—why did he look like that? And in the mirror, he—” Carwood stuttered to a stop, feeling his stomach churn at the memory of that thing's true face, how he had let it touch him.

“The mirror shows what the siren truly looks like.” Jake paused then continued in the gentlest voice Carwood had heard him use since Pa died. “They can shapeshift, not the same as a shifter. They read your mind and—they become what you want most.”

Carwood froze, every muscle stiffening. The siren had seen what he wanted most and then become some twisted facsimile of Ron that was also a hunter. Something Carwood could never have for so many reasons, thrown in his face and casting a shadow over his happy memories of Ron.

No. He wouldn't allow that monster to taint anything to do with Ron. He wouldn't let his mortification and shame pollute his friendship with Ron, wouldn't let how the siren had used his face mar how much Carwood loved it. Ron would never suffer because of Carwood; he couldn't accept that.

But he wasn't the only person who had seen what the siren looked like, he realized with a start. Carwood shifted to face Jake, mind scrambling for some excuse, but Jake just leaned across and pulled him in for a one armed hug.

“Whoever the siren looked like, no matter why it did, it's nothing to be ashamed of, you hear? Don't let that thing hurt you.”

Carwood let himself linger in Jake's embrace for a long moment, too emotionally exhausted to fight the comfort it gave him.

“Are you going to be alright?” Jake asked quietly, breaking the quiet atmosphere in the car.

Carwood sat up, rubbing his hand across his face. He needed to get his things into his truck and get back home. He didn't care if he had to drive all night, he needed to be back with his family and start preparing himself. If Jake was right, and Carwood had learned he always was, then hunting would need to become his top priority. He would need to improve drastically if he was going to avoid another catastrophe like today. “I'm fine.”

Jake sighed wearily, patting his shoulder one last time. “You always are.”

 

\-----------

 

Carwood pulled into a parking spot outside the grungy diner, letting out a heavy sigh as he put the parking brake on. He wasn't looking forward to another meal in another diner. He'd been to enough over the past three weeks to know that after long enough, no matter where you were, all diner food started to taste the same.

He took a moment to look over at the papers on the passenger seat, trying to think if there was anything else he could do tonight. No, he acknowledged silently, there was nothing to do except keep driving north. The witness statement he had gotten from Michael Parr in Harrisburg made that clear: the demon was heading north, possibly eventually to Maine and on to Canada, Parr thought. Why the demon had left Parr alive after jumping into a new host was something Carwood didn't know, but he was grateful that the trail of corpses left behind this monster was one smaller than it could have been.

Carwood resolved to head inside, maybe pick up a paper or chat to the waitress to find out the local gossip. He hadn't yet heard of any developments in the case of the missing man in Ithaca, but he’d been on the road for the past couple of days and could have missed any updates. If there hadn’t been any, going to see the missing man's wife would still be the best place to start and Carwood wouldn't be able to do that until tomorrow morning.

He walked into the diner and grabbed a table, nodding to the waitress as he did. She stopped by after a moment, pouring him a cup of coffee unasked. Carwood sipped it gratefully and turned to the book Ron had sent him, the one he had been reading on and off whenever he could grab a restful moment. He hadn’t gotten very far; whenever he had a quiet minute he inevitably found himself drifting off, his body trying to catch up on the sleep he had lost from being on the road for so long.

The cover was worn and the spine was cracked in several places. When Carwood flipped open the front page, he saw where Ron had signed his name on the flyleaf. Ron had obviously had this book for a long time and had loved it dearly. Then he decided to give it up, send it to Carwood as if on a whim when he could so easily have purchased a new copy to send along. Carwood refused to think too long on the reasons why.

He had never read _The Odyssey_ , but he thought he remembered Ron and Nix talking about it one night at poker while Harry laughed at their more witty comments. It had been one of those conversations the others sometimes had that made Carwood acutely aware of the fact that he was the only officer who didn't have a college education.

He flipped through the first few pages to where he’d left off a couple nights before, squinting at the page in the hopes it would help him concentrate. Even now, when he felt wired from being on the road so long, he couldn't focus on the book, the words swimming before his eyes. Finally, after a few minutes of reading the same sentence over and over, waiting for it sink in, he set the book down with a sigh and settled for people watching instead.

The diner was busy for this hour of the night, busier than he expected it to be, and it looked like it wasn’t going to slow down anytime soon; even as he glanced around, another car pulled into the parking lot, headlights shining through the front window. The poor waitress looked like she was going to be run off her feet, going from table to table with a smile of strained patience. Any wait for service was fine by Carwood: it gave him the time to figure out what he hated the least on the menu. He felt his stomach grumble but couldn't muster any excitement for more diner food.

He couldn’t help but wish he'd decided to stop at a different diner tonight. There were too many people here for him to relax, too many unknown variables that could pose a danger at any time. He found himself staring at the diners for too long, trying to catch a glint of silver or a flicker of too sharp teeth. He managed to tear his eyes away before he disturbed anyone with his staring, berating himself. It was incredibly unlikely that anyone here was a monster and even if they were, not all monsters were so easily detected.

He sighed and started to look back at his menu when the door to the diner opened. Even knowing it must be the driver of the car that had just pulled in, Carwood couldn’t stop himself from glancing over. Absolute shock stopped the breath in his lungs and made his hands clench on the edge of the table.

Ron stood in the doorway, scanning the diner with that familiar assessing look he had which so many took for blank eyed staring. Carwood had never seen him in civilian clothes; it was like looking at a tamed tiger, seemingly soft and gentle but liable to snap at any moment. He was just as handsome in his civilian clothes as he was in his uniform, looking like he had just strolled off a movie screen. It was breathtaking to see him again in person after almost a year of only getting to read his words and imagine his face. Carwood didn’t think his imagination really measured up to the real deal.

But what the hell was Ron doing here of all places? And how on Earth was Carwood going to explain why he was here, instead of down in West Virginia?

His mind raced, trying to think of some excuse when Ron spotted him. And oh, that was exactly how he remembered it: that sudden focusing of intense attention centered on him, so strong it was almost staggering. It had been so long since he’d been at the center of it that he’d almost forgotten how overwhelming it could be.

Ron’s face blanked completely, obviously just as shocked to see Carwood as he had been to see Ron. But then his face settled into softer lines, mouth curving into a delighted grin Carwood had only seen a handful of times. Carwood found himself fighting a lump in his throat at the sight, feeling overwhelmed by the joy he could inspire in this so-often reserved man, just by being in the room.

Ron made his way over to Carwood’s table, side stepping chair legs and misplaced bags with the same grace that had carried him through so many battlefields. Carwood managed to stagger to his feet as Ron approached, feeling flat footed and ungainly as he so often did next to this man. He had to fight a flush, knowing he must look dumbstruck and foolish, still gaping at Ron like a guppy.

But Ron didn't seem to notice, still grinning at Carwood like a little kid at Christmas. He huffed a laugh when Carwood stuck his hand out for a handshake, shaking his head wryly as he pulled Carwood in for a hug.  

It should have been awkward, what with their hands trapped between their chests and in such a public place. But he hadn't seen Ron in almost a year, had never been this close to him. And God, it felt like it had been so long since someone had touched him with kindness; it had been weeks since he'd been around anyone who knew anything about him past the lies he told. But he couldn't let himself lean into it, just copied the way Ron was patting his shoulder and closed his eyes.

Ron pulled back first, letting him go with one last clap on the shoulder. Carwood couldn't help but glance around the diner, but no one seemed to have noticed anything odd about the two of them. Apparently it wasn't obvious how desperately he didn't want to let go, which he could only be grateful for.

Ron just looked at him for a moment, grin lingering in the corners of his mouth. He reached out and patted Carwood’s elbow with another chuckle.

“Carwood. The hell are you doing here?” he asked, a wondering quality to his voice. Carwood felt himself sway forward a little at the sound.

“I'm just passing through, going to visit family,” Carwood said, wincing internally at how quickly the lie came to him. “Please,” he said, waving Ron to sit down at his table. As soon as they were sitting, the waitress swooped by and poured Ron a cup of coffee. His eyes flicked to her for a brief moment before locking back on Carwood.

“Looks like we're travelling for the same reason, then,” Ron said, taking a small sip of his coffee before cradling the mug in his hands.

“You're on your way to see family?”

“My sister.” Ron's lips thinned before he continued. “Family emergency.”

“God, I'm so sorry.” Carwood said, fighting the insane urge to reach across the table and brush his fingers against Ron's hand. “Is there anything I can do?”

Ron gave him a sweet smile, the worry lines around his mouth easing. “No, but thanks for asking.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

Ron's smile widened, his eyes warm as he looked at Carwood steadily. “Y’know, sometimes I thought I must have imagined it. But you really are just that sincere.”

Carwood snorted a laugh and ducked his head, amusement and embarrassment heating his chest.

“Really, I think I need to take a minute to adjust to it. You're definitely the nicest guy I've talked to since I got back to Boston,” Ron continued, his smile stretching until it was almost a grin again. He'd always gotten some kind of thrill out of embarrassing Carwood. It was reassuring in a strange way to see that hadn't changed.

But—Carwood thought about how he'd been basically running from his family, how he spent his days talking to strangers to get the information he needed to kill and felt his mood dip. “I doubt that's true.”

“It really is. The only other person as sincere as you is Dick and I think they're nominating him for sainthood soon.” Ron shook his head wryly, his eyes still focused and sharp on Carwood’s face. “God knows how Nix puts up with him.”

Carwood seized on the change of topic with a sense of desperation. “Have you heard from them recently?”

Ron paused, just long enough so Carwood knew the topic change hadn't gone unnoticed. But he declined to comment on it, just accepted it with a nod. “Yes, we write each other fairly frequently. And they were actually in Boston about a week ago, just visiting the city.”

Carwood smiled. “It must have been good to see them.”

Ron took another sip of his coffee, his eyes finally leaving Carwood’s face to flick around the diner. “It was.”

Silence fell between them as Ron drank his coffee and Carwood scrambled internally for a new topic of conversation. He'd never felt awkward in a conversation with Ron before, even when they had nothing to say and just sat silently together. He didn't enjoy the feeling.

The waitress stopped by briefly to take their order. Carwood, who hadn't actually managed to look at the menu, ordered the house special and hoped he wouldn't regret it.

When he glanced back at Ron after handing back the menus, he wasn't surprised to find Ron already looking back at him. It was the expression on his face which was more puzzling: it was the look he got when he was studying uncertain terrain or contemplating how best to achieve an objective; it wasn't a look Carwood was used to having directed at him.

Before he could say anything, Ron shook himself out of it and looked away.

“I'm glad my package arrived alright,” he said.

Carwood immediately felt mortification bloom in his chest, his right hand shifting to rub at the watch face on his wrist.

“I'm sorry I didn't reply, I meant to—”

Ron shook his head. “No, I didn't mean—” his eyes darted up to Carwood’s face and away again. “I didn't mean that to sound like it did. I know you're busy.”

“Right,” Carwood said under his breath, before continuing more loudly. “I can’t tell you how happy I was to get the watch, really, it’s more than I deserve, especially after I lost the last one so foolishly. So, thank you. Really.”

Ron was looking at him again, his eyes flicking across Carwood’s face as he spoke. He ducked his head, presumably so Carwood wouldn’t see the pleased smile that was trying to break through. “You’re welcome.” He leaned forward in his seat and nodded his head toward the book lying on the side of the table. “And the book? What do you think?”

Carwood glanced toward the book, still fiddling with the watch absentmindedly. “I haven’t been able to get very far in it; I’ve been travelling so much recently I just haven’t had the time.”

Ron nodded, studying Carwood for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how, and it was such an unusual expression for Ron, who was always so certain in everything he did even if he was scared shitless. Carwood wanted to reach out or say something; before he could, Ron broke his gaze and reached into his pocket for his pack of smokes. He tapped one out and looked back up at Carwood, lifting the pack silently. At Carwood’s nod, he tapped out another one and put them both in his mouth to light them before passing one over.

Carwood took a long drag, letting his eyes fall closed as he did so. The imagined heat of Ron’s lips was the perfect complement to the heady rush of nicotine and he wasn’t sure what made his lungs ache more, his desire or the hot smoke.

He opened his eyes to see Ron looking at him, a smirk on his face as he watched Carwood.

“Your mother know you smoke yet?” he asked casually, taking his own drag.

“No, she doesn’t, and I plan to keep it that way.” It was bad enough Leland knew and thought it was both incredibly impressive and hilarious. Carwood had managed to make him swear to not tell Ma, but the price of Leland’s silence was ever increasing and he wasn't looking forward to the day Ma found out.

Ron huffed a laugh, shaking his head. He brought his cigarette back up to his mouth, still smiling, and he looked so handsome just sitting there casually in an anonymous diner they had both ended up in at the same time by complete happenstance that Carwood momentarily lost control of his breathing. Of course, he did this as he was taking another drag and instead of looking suave as Ron did—or at the very least not like a complete idiot—he ended up spluttering and breaking into a coughing fit.

It died fairly quickly, nothing like the ones he’d had while in Europe, although the mild burning sensation that lingered in his throat afterward was concerning. It was probably just sucking down the smoke too quickly though, so Carwood put it out of his mind, the better to focus on his embarrassment as Ron looked at him in concern.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Carwood said, taking a quick drink of his coffee to soothe his throat.

“Is your cough coming back? I’ve heard pneumonia can relapse easily,” Ron pressed, his brow wrinkled in concern. Carwood gripped his mug a little tighter so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out to touch and reassure.

“Doc Roe told me the same thing, but I’m being careful. I’ll be fine.”

Ron looked at him dubiously but anything he could have said was interrupted by their meals arriving.

Carwood looked at his overdone roast beef and goopy mashed potatoes, picking up his fork with a sigh and digging in. He couldn’t complain, really; it was heavenly compared to what they were fed in the army.

“Makes me miss Germany,” Ron said dryly, shoving a forkful of his ham into his mouth. Carwood snorted inelegantly.

“We can’t always have a personal cook,” he said, remembering the town they had billeted in for a night on their way to Zell Am See. Ron had commandeered a house, kicked out the residents, and made a deal with their cook: she would be allowed to stay in her quarters for the night in exchange for providing meals for the officers. It had been the best meal Carwood had had in months, if not since leaving England. “They not feed you well in Boston?”

Ron shook his head, flicking a glance at Carwood as he cut into his potatoes. “I get by,” he said shortly. Carwood could read between the lines: Ron was perpetually single and he wasn’t the type to make elaborate meals, especially just for himself. So unless there was someone else in his life he was cooking for or doing the cooking for him—

“Are you seeing anyone?” Carwood blurted. He flushed immediately and wished he could unsay the words.

Ron looked at him for a long moment, just staring. Carwood tried not to fidget in his seat, knowing it would be more embarrassing if he looked away or took back the question. Ron broke their gaze first, unexpectedly, to look back down at his food. With his head ducked, it was hard to read his face.

“No, I’m not seeing anyone,” Ron said, quietly.

Carwood nodded, looking at Ron closely. If he didn’t know better, he would say that Ron sounded almost forlorn. “No one you’re interested in?” he asked. He might as well see the line of conversation through, now that he’d started. And he couldn’t deny he was curious. Even though it would hurt to hear about Ron’s feelings for someone else, it felt like a necessary pain, like pulling a scab off or debriding a wound. It would hurt Carwood, but it would mean that Ron had a chance for happiness, and that was its own kind of healing.

Ron looked back up from his food, his eyes meeting Carwood’s. “I wouldn’t say that.” Carwood opened his mouth to ask, but cut himself off. There was an air of desperation in Ron’s eyes, a brittleness, that made Carwood want to tread carefully.

Before Carwood could think of anything else to say, Ron spoke. “How about you? How’s Peggy?” He looked back down at his plate as he asked, his voice so devoid of inflection that Carwood didn’t realize he was asking a question until a few seconds had passed.

Carwood cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling the flush that had just faded crawling back onto his face. “Fine.” He found himself desperately wanting another cigarette. “We—we separated, actually.”

A beat of silence in which Carwood listened to the clinking of cutlery and quiet conversation. A family with a baby was sitting at the table across from them; Carwood let himself get distracted watching the baby playing with his food rather than try to guess what Ron was thinking.

“When did this happen?” Ron asked quietly.

Carwood looked at the baby a second longer before turning back to Ron. He was obviously trying to keep his face clear of expression but the signs of strain—the wrinkle between his brows, the tightening of his lips—gave him away. “Around when I got back to Huntington.”

“You never said anything,” Ron said. His voice was almost inflectionless, but it was clearly a question.

“Honestly, I didn’t much see the point.” If Carwood didn’t know better, he would have said Ron flinched a bit at that before clearing his face. But he did know better, so he continued. “Peggy sent me a letter just before we left Austria. When I got back, we talked it out and decided to separate. It wasn’t anything dramatic.”

“She didn’t want you back?”

Carwood hesitated, before deciding to be as honest as he could. “She found someone else.”

He wasn’t technically lying. Peggy had sent him a letter while he was in Austria and mentioned Grace, the hunter she’d met while running down a pack of ghouls in Tennessee. It wasn’t until he’d gotten back that she’d told him what she and Grace were to each other. After that, the separation had made the most sense for the both of them.

Ron shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It happened to a lot of the men,” Carwood said, noncommittally. And those other men had loved their wives in the way expected of them and lost them anyway. Carwood had no room to complain, even if he wanted to.

“I know that, but—” Ron cut himself off, staring at the table for a long moment before gritting out, “I just find it hard to believe that she would let you go.”

Carwood didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed quiet, swallowing as he looked back down at the table.

“Are you looking for anyone? Now?” Ron asked after an awkward beat, sounding strained.

Carwood shook his head. “No,” then, because it was Ron asking and he deserved some semblance of the truth, “I don’t think I’m ready.”

He’d been waiting for his feelings to pass, for what felt like eons. Now, sitting across from the man who had inspired them, he knew those feelings were just as strong as ever. They weren’t going anywhere, weren’t going to fade between one day and the next like snow before a sudden, warm wind. He would probably never be ready. He was beginning to make his peace with that.

Ron didn't say anything but his gaze shifted down from Carwood's face. Carwood followed his eyes and discovered he was twisting his wedding ring, so vigorously that the skin on his finger was starting to get irritated. Carwood pulled his right hand away and flattened his left on the table. He looked back up at Ron, but he'd looked away, seemingly engrossed in studying the family across from them. Carwood took it as the merciful out it was.

“How are you settling into the new position?” he asked and Ron started talking about the myriad joys of being a supervisory supply officer with an air of relief. No wonder: as blunt as he was, Ron wasn't one for overly emotional conversations.

They managed to get through most of their meals talking about work, life in Huntington and Boston, and their plans for the upcoming holidays.

“I think my mother might murder me if I didn’t show up for Christmas this year,” Ron said, shooting Carwood a laughing look. Carwood chuckled, glad the mood of their conversation had shed its earlier awkwardness.

“Mine too. She was so disappointed we didn’t make it back before last Christmas, I think she’s going a little crazy with this year’s.”

Ron nodded, a wry cast to his face. “My father sent me a letter last week saying about the same thing.”

“Is the base doing anything?”

“I think some of the other officers are hosting some kind of potluck; I’ve heard some of them talking about whose wife is making what.” Ron ate his last bite and pushed his plate away. “One of the men from my bachelor’s club mentioned having a festive poker night.”

“What makes it festive?” Carwood asked.

“We drink eggnog rather than whiskey,” Ron said, looking pleased when Carwood laughed.

The waitress stopped by their table, picking up the empty plates and returning with a pot of coffee to refill their cups.

“I’m glad you’re getting along with the other officers,” Carwood said.

“They’re alright,” Ron said simply, a smile playing around his face. “I couldn’t not give them a try after you accused me of being ‘lonely’. Couldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

Carwood rolled his eyes with a laugh but didn’t have a chance to say anything before a loud crash rang through the diner. Conversations cut off as everyone looked over at the table next to them, where the baby had accidentally pushed a glass to the floor.

Carwood was distracted from the growing commotion by Ron’s pained exhalation. He looked over quickly; Ron was holding his hand up gingerly, a splash of coffee on the table.

“What happened?” Carwood asked, reaching for a napkin to clean up the spill.

“I knocked my coffee, got some on my hand,” Ron said, sounding annoyed with himself. He started to bring his hand back toward himself and Carwood reached out on instinct, gently stopping the motion. Ron looked up at him, startled.

“Let me,” Carwood said, quietly. The waitress had left a pitcher of water on the table behind him when she hurried over to help clean up the mess; Carwood grabbed it and a clean glass from the table, poured some water, and wet a clean napkin. Then he reclaimed Ron’s hand and pressed the cool, wet cloth to it. Ron didn’t say anything, just watched him with that endless gaze and let Carwood hold his hand, the heat of his palm bleeding up into Ron’s. Carwood resisted the urge to blush or look away. At least the sound of the baby working himself into a good wail was distracting enough that the other patrons probably wouldn’t notice him and Ron.

They sat like that for awhile, as the glass was cleaned up and the baby soothed. Finally, Carwood lifted the napkin to check Ron’s hand. The immediate redness had faded and his skin felt cooler to the touch.

“You seem alright, but you should probably keep that on for a little while longer,” Carwood said, setting Ron’s hand down gently.

“I’ll be fine,” Ron said, shortly, but he’d looked away and refused to meet Carwood’s gaze now. Carwood swallowed and put the wet napkin on the table alongside the coffee-stained one.

Their conversation after that felt more stilted, uncomfortable. Carwood couldn’t help but notice, with a bitter taste in his mouth, that Ron wouldn’t let himself meet Carwood’s eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

Eventually, Ron reached for his coat. “Well, I’d better be off. I want to make it my sister’s place tonight and it’s a few hours drive yet. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“Yes.” He was actually planning to sleep in the truck tonight, save some money and get to Ithaca early, but Ron didn’t need to know that.

Ron nodded sharply. “Good. You look like you’re about to fall asleep in your coffee.”

Carwood snorted, but couldn’t say that Ron was wrong. He was exhausted and the warmth of the diner was making him sleepy.

Ron stood and Carwood followed suit. “It was good to see you.”

“You too,” Ron said. He was studying him closely again, that same expression of uncertainty lingering on his face, before it cleared into a more familiar blankness. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

“You will,” Carwood said and hesitated before pulling Ron in for a quick hug, feeling very daring as he absorbed the feeling of heat pressed along his body. They drew apart and Ron started to dig into his pocket for his wallet before Carwood shook his head.

“It’s alright, I’ve got it,” Carwood said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. It’s the least I can do.”

Ron, thankfully, didn’t ask what Carwood meant by that last part. He just watched him for a moment longer before reaching out and clapping Carwood on the shoulder. Then he hesitated, his hand lingering on Carwood.

“If you’re ever out near Boston, you should come visit. It’d be good to have you,” Ron said, a slight tinge of awkwardness lingering on the edge of his voice.

Carwood blinked heavily, swallowing down the surge of emotion in his chest. “I’ll try,” he said, voice rough. It wasn’t quite a lie; he would at least think about visiting Ron if he was near Boston, as much as he probably wouldn’t do it.

Ron smiled, warm and a little sad, squeezing Carwood’s shoulder one last time before letting go. Then he nodded, said a quick goodbye, and headed out the door.

Ron stopped briefly outside, looking at nothing while he pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He took a long drag before heading over to his car, hopping in, and pulling away after another moment. He didn’t look back at the diner once.

 

\-----------

 

Carwood had always known he would never be able to live any kind of normal life. He had tried to run from it by going to war, his last gasp at something halfway normal, even though he was killing everyday, even though he fell in love with a man. But he had still known, deep down, that those things that most men took for granted—a house, a job, friends, someone to come home to—weren't meant for him.

It was slightly comforting to know he was right.

 

\-----------

 

Carwood arrived in Ithaca early the next morning and checked into a hotel. He took a quick shower and changed into his suit, tucking his mocked up FBI badge into the pocket on his jacket. He was down at the police station talking to the Police Chief within a half hour of their opening.

Seeing Ron had made this case seem more urgent. He'd spent so long chasing this demon, he was eager to finally catch up to it and this lead was the best he'd had in weeks.

The Police Chief had little to add that wasn't already in the newspaper articles Carwood had read. Jeremy Reynolds, a manager at the local plant, had gone missing on the evening of the 15th. He had apparently gone about his day like usual—work, home, dinner. But dinner on that particular evening had devolved into a nasty fight with his wife, something she claimed was out of the usual. Then Reynolds had walked out and hadn’t been seen since.

“His wife said he’d been acting a bit odd for a few days before he disappeared, but between you and me,” the Chief said, leaning in conspiratorially, “they didn’t have the happiest of marriages.”

Carwood didn’t say anything to that; he just looked placidly back the Chief, refusing to discuss the implication that this was a case of a husband leaving his wife rather than being taken. After an awkward pause, the Chief cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.

“Whatever his relationship with his wife, a man is still missing,” Carwood said, letting a note of steel enter his voice.

“Yes, sir,” the Chief said, and Carwood tried not to twitch at hearing that said to him again after so long.

“I need to speak to Mrs. Reynolds. Could you give me her address?”

The Chief nodded, obviously eager to have Carwood gone, before a worried look crossed his face. “Say, you don't think it has anything to do with those Commies, do you?” he said, looking around significantly as if a Soviet spy would jump out from around a corner at any moment.

And this was the inherent problem of using the FBI cover, Carwood thought with an internal sigh. He always had to be so careful to avoid any implications or references when talking to anyone when he played this role. If he gave anyone the idea that Reynolds was a Communist, it could destroy his life just as easily as the demon could.

But for all it had its issues, the FBI cover was one of the best in his repertoire. One good FBI badge forgery carried him through more doors than any twenty other forgeries combined. And people were always so over awed by the badge they pretty much let him do whatever he wanted, including asking the awkward questions hunters sometimes needed to ask. Carwood was almost positive he'd given at least one police officer the impression that the Soviets were somehow using cold spots to infiltrate America.

“There doesn't seem to be any connection to Communism in this case.” The Chief nodded again, seemingly relieved the Communists hadn't started some subtle invasion of his town and handed the address over.

The Reynolds house was in a nice neighbourhood, full of little parks and quiet streets. As he got out of the truck, Carwood spotted a mother sitting on a park bench watching two children chasing each other on the grass. It was a sweet scene; it was disquieting to know that such sweetness could co-exist so closely with the malevolence of the supernatural.

Carwood shoved his morbid thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing as he walked up the path to the door of the Reynolds house. It was a nice house; he could see the remnants of a victory garden along the side, the patch obviously sitting untended for a while before the winter frost started setting in.

He reached the front door and knocked. He glanced down at the welcome mat as he did so and saw the remnants of a yellow substance smeared on the edges nearest the door. Hearing the approach of footsteps from within, he bent quickly and picked some up. The scent was immediately clear: rotten eggs. It was sulphur; the demon had taken Reynolds here.

Carwood had just enough time to straighten up and put a bland expression on his face before the door opened, revealing a young woman around his age. She was well put together, in a way that reminded him, oddly enough, of Winters and his determination to always look neat and tidy no matter where they were or what was going on.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Mrs. Reynolds?” Carwood asked. She nodded.

“My name is Agent Clifford Campbell, I'm with the FBI. I'm sorry to bother you, but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your husband.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked at him silently for a second, then nodded. “Of course, come in.”

She brought him to the table in the kitchen area, waving him into a seat. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, sweeping over to the kettle.

“No, thank you. I'll try to get out of your hair as soon as I can.”

“Well, if it helps find my husband, I won't be anything but grateful,” she said wryly, glancing over at him as she poured herself some tea.

As she sat down across from him, he couldn't help but think she looked familiar somehow. It made him stiffen up for a moment, remembering the last time a stranger had seemed overly familiar before he forced himself to calm down. She was a victim here, someone who deserved his sympathy, not the enemy.

“If you don't mind my asking, why is the FBI interested in Jeremy's case?” she asked.

“We believe his disappearance is linked to several other missing persons’ cases,” Carwood said smoothly.

“Other people have disappeared? He didn't just—” she cut herself off, holding her palm over her mouth and closing her eyes tightly. Carwood politely looked away, giving her a moment.

After a beat of silence she took a deep, shaking breath, letting it in a long sigh. “I'm sorry, it's been a trying time.”

“I understand, and I'm sorry to bother you like this.”

“No, it's alright. I'm just surprised the FBI is interested is all. To hear the police tell it, he just decided he had enough and left me.” She rolled her eyes, reaching for a pack of smokes on the corner of the table. “You want one?”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” She pulled a lighter seemingly out of nowhere, some wieldy silver contraption with detailed flowers and ivy engraved on it. Carwood felt himself relax at the sight of silver.

“You like it?” Mrs. Reynolds asked, catching his reaction to the lighter and mistaking it for interest. “My brother gave it to me, brought it back all the way from Germany.”

“That was nice of him,”  Carwood said.

Mrs. Reynolds smiled wryly. “He's a nice guy. He's actually visiting right now, wanted to help out when he heard what happened.” She looked away toward the window, a distant look in her eye. “He should be back soon.”

Carwood nodded and decided to redirect the conversation. He recognized the signs of someone who was thinking about other things, anything, to avoid thinking about the horrible thing that was happening to them at that moment. He’d seen it often enough. “Mrs. Reynolds, can you tell me what happened the night your husband disappeared?”

She nodded, her eyes flicking back to him as she took another drag. “It was a fairly normal night. I made dinner, he came home from work, but when we sat down to eat he—” she paused, seeming to need the time to figure out how to word it. “We argued. I don’t even really understand what about, he just started in on me, saying all these crazy things. I got so angry I told him to get out and he did and he just...didn’t come back.” She took another long drag, holding the smoke in for a long moment before blowing it out on a slow breath. “So you see why the police think he’s just left me.”

Carwood said nothing, just looked at her with a steady sympathy. Her eyes flicked up to his face and the brittleness in her face seemed to ease a bit.

“Had he been acting oddly in the days before his disappearance?” he asked.

Mrs. Reynolds stared at him for a second before nodding slowly. “Yes, he had been. He kept...staring at me with the oddest look on his face, like he’d never seen me before. Sometimes I’d catch him smiling at the oddest moments. And…” she trailed off, taking one last desperate drag before stubbing her butt out with a muttered curse.

“What is it?”

She looked at him again and seemed to settle a bit, determination stealing across her features. “He kept saying...mean things. Cruel things. He’d read an article in the paper about a missing child and say awful things about what might have happened to her like it was a joke. And then he’d start in on me and I’d yell right back and...one time it got so bad I was sure he was going to hit me.” She said the last sentence very quietly, staring at the table dully. Then she looked back up, the fire back in her eyes.

“You have to understand, he isn’t normally like that; I wouldn’t stand for it if he was. It was—it was like he was a completely different person.” She huffed a disbelieving sound, fingers scrabbling for her cigarettes again. “I must sound insane.”

Carwood reached out, stilling her fingers on the cigarettes so she would meet his eyes. “You don’t. I promise.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked at him, seeming to search his face for any hint of falsehood. Carwood stayed still and let her look. Finally, she seemed satisfied and leaned back in her chair.

“You believe me. You believe something happened to Jeremy, not that he just finally had enough and left.”

“Yes, I believe you.” They looked at each other for a moment before Mrs. Reynolds accepted this with a serious nod. “Mrs. Reynolds—”

He cut himself off at the sound of front door opening and closing with a thunk, his attention immediately focused on the sounds of someone else in the house. Mrs. Reynolds noticed and said, reassuringly, “don’t worry, it’s just my brother.” She turned in her seat and called back over her shoulder, “we’re in here!”

Carwood almost flinched at the sudden noise, but forced himself to relax as the footsteps came closer. Being on the hunt so long had made him jumpy; he needed to stay calm, for the Reynolds’ sake.

He had almost managed to calm down completely when a far too familiar voice said, “Ellie?” just before Ron stepped into the kitchen.

It was like a nightmare; Carwood felt rooted to the spot, only able to stare in mounting horror. It was exactly like a nightmare, except instead of watching his family and friends die while he stood by helpless, he was watching a look of confused recognition come over Ron’s face knowing that any kind of friendship they had was finished.

Before either of them could say anything, Mrs. Reynolds—Eleanor Reynolds, Ellie, Ron’s sister, and why didn’t Carwood ask more about the ‘family emergency’ Ron was in the area for, why did he just take a coincidence like that at face value—started the introductions.

“Agent, this is my brother Ron. Ron, this is Special Agent Campbell from the FBI. He’s here about Jeremy.”

Ron’s face went blank as soon as Mrs. Reynolds started speaking, his eyes widening as she spoke. For the first time since they had started to get to know one another, Carwood couldn’t read him at all.

For what felt like an eternity, they just stared at each other. Carwood was unable to speak, could only prepare himself for the recriminations, the confused accusations, that he knew were coming.

Finally, after such a long pause that he was sure Mrs. Reynolds must have noticed something was wrong, Ron opened his mouth to speak. Carwood braced himself for angry words; he was so ready for them that he almost missed it when Ron just said “pleased to meet you,” in a neutral tone.

Carwood blinked in surprise, extremely thankful to Ma in that moment and all the manners she had painstakingly drilled into he and Lee because it meant he responded automatically while his mind whirled. Ron was covering for him, he realized belatedly. He was keeping the fact they knew each other, the fact that Carwood was not and had never been an FBI agent to himself. Even now, catching Carwood in a lie the magnitude of which he couldn’t even comprehend, Ron was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Carwood swallowed heavily and managed to tear his focus away from Ron and back to the reason he was here. Apparently, the tension in the room hadn’t been as obvious as he had feared; Mrs. Reynolds was looking at Ron with mild suspicion, but nothing like Carwood had been expecting, and the suspicion faded as soon as Carwood called her attention back to him.

Somehow, Carwood finished the interview, feeling like there was a wall of cotton between him and Mrs. Reynolds he was struggling to see and speak through. His senses were entirely wrapped up Ron, noticing the way he was breathing, the way he moved over to lean against the wall next to the doorway. Carwood knew he was still staring and it was all he could do to avoid that gaze.

Finally, Carwood finished with his questions, sensing he had learned all he was going to here. Usually, he would make some kind of excuse about needing to look at the house and the missing man’s belongings, but he didn’t dare do so now.

Carwood stood, straightening his suit jacket self-consciously. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said, “and I’m sorry again for intruding during such a difficult time.”

“It was nothing,” she said and reached out to grip Carwood’s wrist hard for a moment. “Just promise you’ll bring him home. Promise me.”

Carwood nodded, bringing his hand up to squeeze hers, all too aware of Ron’s eyes burning into him. “I promise.”

Mrs. Reynolds looked at him for a long moment and then nodded and let him go. Carwood turned to the doorway and finally looked at Ron again. Ron’s face was still utterly blank but it was set into the hard lines Carwood remembered so well from the war. Somehow, Carwood managed to nod in farewell before making his way out of the house. He closed the front door softly behind him and blindly walked down the front walk to his truck. Then he climbed into the cab and waited.

Barely two minutes passed before the passenger side door opened and Ron hopped in beside him. Carwood didn't have to look at him to know how angry he was; Ron was practically vibrating with it. Carwood took a moment to brace himself, hands momentarily tightening on the steering wheel, before he turned to face Ron.

Ron, of course, was already staring at him, those dark eyes boring into Carwood’s. Carwood swallowed; he had been on the receiving end of Ron’s unending gaze so often, that it seemed almost normal to him now. Ron never meant anything by it, it was simply his way. Carwood had also seen enough of Ron’s temper to know how best to weather and defuse it, but he had never been the target of Ron’s anger. Frustration, yes, when Carwood had quietly but adamantly refused to rest before he had completed all his duties and seen to the men while he was sick as a dog with pneumonia. Ron had snapped at him, voice sharp and gestures sharper, but Carwood had known it came from a place of concern and so didn't take it personally. But now, looking into Ron’s seemingly bottomless glare, Carwood couldn't know where he stood with him.

“Ron, I—”

“I think you owe me an explanation Carwood,” Ron interrupted, so focused he might not have even realized Carwood was speaking. “When I ran into you a couple days ago, I figured I would let it go, even though you looked like shit and like you'd been sleeping in your truck and you hadn't responded to anything I'd sent you in a month. You said you'd been travelling, and I accepted that, even though it obviously wasn't the whole truth. I accepted it because I trust you, I trust you to know your own business and to take care of yourself, although God knows why I do, because you have always done a piss-poor job of looking after yourself—”

“Ron—” Carwood tried to cut in at that, meaning to defend himself, but Ron just kept talking. Carwood shut his mouth and looked away; he obviously wasn't going to get a word in edgewise until Ron had said his piece.

“But now I find you in my sister’s house, lying about your name and pretending to be an FBI agent of all things so you can ask her invasive questions about her missing husband. So explain this to me, Carwood, please, because right now, this looks very ugly and I know you better than that.”

Carwood looked back up at that, letting his eyes search Ron's face, studying the frown lines that marked his brow and the emotions swirling in his eyes. And Carwood felt his heart ache at the doubt and hurt he found there.

“You do know me, Ron, I promise that hasn't changed,” Carwood said quietly, “it's only that - I haven't been entirely truthful with you. I'm sorry.”

Ron said nothing for a moment, seeming to need a moment to absorb Carwood's words. When his eyes flicked back up Carwood's face, any emotions he was feeling had retreated behind the expressionless mask he had worn so often during the war. “I don't need an apology Carwood. Just an explanation.”

Carwood nodded, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. He had always been able to see through Ron's masks and it was difficult to look at the hurt still lingering in the corners of Ron's eyes.

“I'm here because I heard about what happened to your brother-in-law, although I wasn't aware he was your brother-in-law at the time. I…” Carwood trailed off, searching for words, “I help people in cases like this.”

“I thought you were helping your mother run a boarding house, not being some kind of Pinkerton for hire.”

“I am helping my mother, this is—this is how I'm helping.” Carwood winced, glancing back up at Ron and seeing only angry confusion. “Sorry, I'm making a hash of explaining this. I'm—” Carwood sighed, just letting himself look at Ron for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. Then he drew a deep breath and took the plunge. “I'm what we call a hunter. So is the rest of my family, all the way back for generations. That’s what the boarding house is, it's a place for hunters to go, to stay and rest or get information on hunts.”

“Like where the deer are fat and slow?” Ron asked dryly. Carwood huffed a laugh, drinking in the reluctant amusement on Ron's face.

“Not exactly. Hunters like me have a different kind of prey.” Ron raised his eyebrows in a silent gesture bidding Carwood to continue, and Carwood finally bit the metaphorical bullet. “Things like vampires, ghosts, werewolves, ghouls.”

There was a long pause; Carwood stared out the windshield so he wouldn't have to look at Ron. His initial impression of the neighbourhood was right: it was nice, clean, with big, green yards and a park down the street. It was exactly the kind of place that Carwood would imagine a mildly wealthy and educated family like the Speirs’ raising their children. But for all that, he barely registered the view, all of his attention focused on the growing well of silence beside him.

“You're shitting me, right?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Monsters are real,” Ron said, derision thick in his tone.

“Yes.”

Ron snorted. “You honestly expect me to believe that the monsters under the bed are real.

“I don’t expect you to believe it, not right now, but it’s the truth.” Carwood said quietly.

Ron snorted again, shaking his head. He was still staring at Carwood, his jaw so tight Carwood though he could hear his teeth grinding. “And what the hell does that have to do with Jeremy, you think he’s—”

“No,” Carwood said, “he’s not a monster, but he’s been taken by one.” He swallowed. “A demon.”

“A demon,” Ron said, disbelief and anger coloring every word. “Demons are real and one of them abducted my brother-in-law.”

Carwood sighed, shifting in his seat to face Ron more directly. “I know it’s hard to believe—”

“Yeah, you got that right.” Ron cut him off. He turned away to frown back at his sister’s house. Carwood couldn’t help but think he was doing it on purpose to avoid meeting Carwood’s gaze and tried to repress the pang in his chest at the thought.

They lapsed into silence for a minute or two until Ron finally spoke again, quieter. “Prove it to me.”

“What?” Carwood asked, not sure he had heard correctly.

“Show me proof that Jeremy's a—” he snorted and then finished his sentence in a disbelieving tone. “A demon.”

“Well,” Carwood started, still wrongfooted by the request, “demons need to possess a human in order to have influence on the world. This demon’s been travelling north from Florida, taking a new host every state or so. A demon possession is usually marked with odd events, like animal mutilations or freak storms. Like the one that happened here on the night your brother-in-law disappeared. Demons can also leave behind sulfur when they travel or take a new host. I found some on the front step.”

“So a storm and some yellow dust, that means a demon in your world,” Ron said, his expression dark.

Carwood swallowed heavily. “Well, the sulfur means that a demon has been here. That, coupled with your brother-in-law’s odd behaviour and the demon’s overall trajectory makes me certain the demon’s possessing him.”

“Jesus, the fact you can say that with a straight face.” Ron shook his head, glaring out the windshield as if the neat houses lining the street had wronged him instead of Carwood. “Christ, Carwood, everything we saw in the war, those camps, that wasn’t demonic enough for you? You have to invent some other worldly figment—”

“I’m not inventing anything, I’m telling you the truth,” Carwood said, trying to sound calm and sure.

“Oh, really,” Ron said derisively, “just like you told me the truth last night?”

Carwood couldn’t say anything to that, just looked at Ron mutely. Ron shook his head again, an edge of despair that Carwood never wanted to see on his face entering his expression.

“If what you’re saying to me now is true, it means you've been lying to me, the entire time we've known each other. Is anything you've told me about your life true? Was there anything real in those letters you sent me?”

Carwood tried to speak but Ron just kept going. “How did you really lose your watch? Because it wasn't fixing a drain pipe, was it.”

Carwood looked at him for a moment, making himself meet Ron’s angry eyes. “No,” he finally admitted hesitantly,  “I lost it while—while hunting.”

Ron huffed disbelievingly. “Of course. Of course you did.” And he reached for the door.

Carwood grabbed his arm, desperate to explain before Ron stormed off. “Ron, please. I'm sorry I lied, you have no idea how sorry I am, but please. I know this is difficult to understand—”

Ron whirled on him, any kind of hold he had been keeping on temper completely gone. “Do you know? Because this sounds insane, Carwood. This sounds like you should be in the loony bin. And you say your entire family's involved in this? Jesus Christ.” He opened the door and got out of the truck. Carwood scrambled out after him.

“Ron—”

Ron wheeled back on him, face carved in angry lines. “I don't want this anywhere near my family, you understand me? That you'd come here now with this shit—” he cut himself off and shook his head. “You need to go.”

“Ron, please, just let me—”

“Go,” he said again, command heavy in his voice. “You're not welcome here.” He looked at Carwood for another second, eyes sparking with anger and then turned around back into the house.

Carwood stood for a while, staring after him. Then he ducked his head, and got back in his truck to leave. If he had to blink hard a couple of times to clear his vision before pulling away, no one else would know.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in posting! hope you enjoy the new chapter :)

 

 

Carwood remembered a promise he and Ron had made to each other, on a sunny afternoon in Austria. 

They were reclining side by side in the loungers on a balcony at Zell Am See the day after VJ day. Most of the boys were so hungover from the revelries the day before that they could barely move, except toward a bucket to throw up in or to grab another bottle of liquor for some hair of the dog. Carwood had found himself with curiously little to do other than watch the boys groan and feel sorry for themselves. So when Speirs had stepped up next to him and led him outside, he hadn’t protested. 

His eyes had adjusted to the unrelenting sunlight now and he kept turning into it like a plant withering in the shade. His own hangover, consisting of a mild headache the result of the several drinks Harry and Speirs had pushed on him, had mostly faded, leaving him feeling warm and content. 

Carwood glanced sideways at Speirs, who was lounging in his chair with his eyes closed, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers and slowly burning down. Carwood couldn’t help but let his eyes trail over his body, noting the way his hair swept over his forehead rakishly, his casual posture, the way his legs were splayed to take up the entirety of the lounger. He looked like he was selling fancy clothes in some high-end magazine, if the fancy clothes were army uniforms. 

Carwood tore his eyes away, closing them and facing into the sun. And not a moment too soon: he could hear Speirs shift beside him, the lounger creaking as he leaned over to stub his cigarette out. Carwood snuck a look at him, only to be caught in Speirs’ gaze. Speirs paused, just looking at him, then turned onto his side to face Carwood more directly. If he’d looked like a movie star before, now he looked like a little kid ready for nap, with his arm tucked under his head as a pillow and his eyes sleepy. 

“Thinking of something funny, Lieutenant?” Speirs’ voice broke into his thoughts. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You’re smiling,” Speirs said, a soft smile of his own creeping across his face. It was the same expression he had worn back in the church at Rachamps and Carwood had to duck his head rather than face it head-on. 

“Just happy to be heading home, sir. Excited to see my family again.”  

“And to get a headstart on those college applications,” Speirs added and Carwood couldn’t help but smile at him. Speirs’ eyes had lit up the first time Carwood had hesitantly mentioned that he might want to go to college, and he’d spent the rest of that poker game leaning across the table and talking to Carwood about it—where he’d want to go, what field he’d want to pursue—until Harry and Nix had wandered off in search of something more exciting. Carwood still wasn’t sure how he was going to bring it up with his family; he didn’t think anyone in his family had ever pursued anything that wasn’t the family business, but he wanted to try. And after the way Speirs had encouraged him, he felt like he really could make a go of it. 

“And you, sir? Are you excited to get back?” Carwood asked. 

Speirs sighed and settled deeper into his chair. His eyes drifted to the side, as if he was looking past and through Carwood to something else. “Honestly, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself without a war. Head back to Boston, I suppose. At least until they transfer me somewhere else.” 

Speirs trailed off into silence and Carwood took a moment to look at him more closely. He looked tired. Not as tired as he’d been in Hagenau, when it seemed he was dragging himself around the town through sheer force of will, but still tired. He looked sad too, a quiet despondency lurking in his eyes that Carwood couldn’t quite explain but wanted to soothe. 

“Y’know, sir, you’re always welcome to come visit me in Huntington,” he said slowly, trying to feel out his verbal footing even as he spoke. Speirs refocused on him, all his attention coming back to Carwood as his eyes settled on his face. 

“Really?” 

“Yes. I know my family would love to meet you.” And it was true: Carwood could already see how Speirs would fit into his home: Ma sitting at the table with him while they joked slyly at Carwood’s expense, Leland looking at him with that sheen of hero worship in his eyes he got around the hunters with the truly wild tales. 

Speirs huffed a wry laugh and settled deeper into his chair. “That’s kind of you to say.” 

“It’s true, sir.” Carwood hesitated and knotted his hands in his lap before continuing. “You’ll always be welcome wherever I am, sir.” He let a beat of agonizing silence pass before continuing in a lighter tone. “You should come visit. I’ll show you the sights, such as they are.”

Speirs stared at him for a long moment, a slight furrow in his brow. He seemed to be dissecting Carwood’s words, searching for any hints of forced cheer or insincerity. Carwood just looked steadily back and didn’t say anything else, knowing it was enough. 

Speirs’ lips twitched up in a smile as he finished studying Carwood, eyes flicking down before coming up to Carwood’s. “I’ll have to take you up on that. On two conditions.” 

Carwood frowned in confusion. “Sir?” 

“One, you cut it out with that ‘sir’ crap. The war’s over if you haven’t noticed, so I think it’s about time you start calling me by my first name. It’s Ron, in case you’ve forgotten.” 

Carwood laughed and ducked his head, watching his hands as he fingered the hem of his jacket. “I haven’t. Ron. But you have to call me Carwood.” He looked back up to see Speirs —Ron—practically grinning at him. 

“Deal,” Ron said, eyes alight with merriment. 

“And the second condition?” Carwood asked, feeling an answering grin growing on his face. 

“You come visit me in Boston. I’m not sure if the sights will compare to Huntington, but I can still show you around,” Ron said, a teasing note entering his voice as he spoke. 

Carwood nodded, knowing his grin was unmistakable now. “I’m sure they’ll be fine, especially with you as my tour guide.” 

Ron chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you somewhere good.” He rolled over onto his back, closing his eyes as he faced back into the sunlight. “It’s the same for me, Carwood. You’re always welcome wherever I am.” 

Carwood swallowed thickly, trying to smother the surge of warmth in his chest. He was glad Ron had turned away before saying that; he wasn’t sure what was showing on his face, just knew that he didn’t want Ron to see it. “Thank you.” 

Ron just grunted, sounding half asleep already, and Carwood had to fight down another smile. They sat there together in the sunshine for a while, until the voices of some of the boys passing below—it sounded like Martin, Perconte, and Bull, judging by the squabbling and deep laughter—jerked Ron out of his doze. He hauled himself to his feet, lifting his arms above his head in a deep stretch. It made his jacket lift up and Carwood looked away. 

“I’m going to see if I can find Nix or Harry. Join me?” 

Carwood sighed good-naturedly and stood as well, giving Ron a skeptical look. “If only to make sure you and Harry don’t end up brawling.” 

Ron shot him a mock-innocent look which was ruined by the smile lurking around his lips. “Harry’s the one who wants to fight, not me. I can’t help it if he’s a convincing man.” 

Carwood sighed again, which succeeded in making Ron laugh. They headed out of the chateau together and Carwood spent the rest of the day trying to keep Harry from egging Ron into a brawl. It wasn’t exactly restful but it was an oddly enjoyable way to pass the time. And the entire while, his mind kept slipping back to their earlier conversation and his nascent imaginings about a visit to Boston and images of Ron in Huntington. 

Of course, that visit had never happened. After enough hunts, he had barely thought about it anymore except for some of his more ridiculous daydreams. The more time passed, the more foolish it seemed, a promise made by two young men at the end of a war they'd somehow lived through while so many others died. There wasn't room for a promise like that in Carwood's life. It belonged to a Carwood Lipton who had never existed, a shade in Ron's mind that possessed all the admirable qualities he prized so highly—bravery, sincerity, honesty. It was time to leave such foolishness in the past, where it belonged. 

 

\-----------

 

The hotel room seemed brighter than it should, sunlight streaming cheerily through the curtains and making the room feel hotter than a winter morning should. Carwood collapsed on the bed and sat for a long moment, feeling so exhausted it made his bones ache. Then he shrugged off his suit jacket and started to unbutton his shirt, pulling on his regular clothes stiffly. He felt brittle, fragile, like he’d break if someone looked at him sideways. 

He had never imagined what he’d do if Ron found out, because he’d never thought that Ron would find out. Even if he had, this was far crueler than anything he could have expected. 

Somehow, he wrenched his thoughts back to the case. Mrs. Reynolds had all but stated that her husband had been possessed but nothing she had said had given him any real clue as to where the demon was headed. Short of searching for demon omens in the local area he was stuck again. 

No, there had to be something he could do to get ahead of this demon for once. Carwood rubbed his palm over his eyes, hoping to relieve the headache he felt growing there, and tried to think. Damn it, if he just knew the demon’s name he could perform a locating spell and find the son of a bitch once and for all. Assuming the demon hadn’t warded against that.

Carwood sighed deeply, the air catching roughly in his chest, and grabbed his bag of supplies before taking a seat at the little table. Maybe doing something with his hands would help him calm down enough to think. 

He pulled out his rock salt and his shells, packing the shells carefully. Salt shells wouldn't expel a demon, but it sure would give it a hell of a sting, hopefully enough to distract it long enough to exorcise it. 

The repetitive motions of filling the shells was soothing, gave him something steady to concentrate on rather than his racing thoughts. It reminded him of cleaning Hoob’s luger in Bastogne, pouring every blessing he could think of over it before gifting it Malarkey. It had been something simple he could do, something he'd turn to with an air of desperation when everything else about those woods seemed so overwhelming. It had been a kind of comfort, a twisted comfort especially considering the way Hoob had screamed and cried as he died, how little Carwood had been able to do to save him, doing everything he could think of and failing anyway— 

Carwood placed the shell on the table and put his head in his hands. A minute later he took a deep breath and started on the shells again. 

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, three heavy raps then silence. Carwood stared at the door for a moment before picking up his revolver and stepping over, staggering once dizzily before he regained his footing. He unlocked the door and opened it, holding his gun just out of view but easily brought to aim if needed. 

It was Ron, waiting casually with his hands slung in his coat pockets, the winter wind ruffling his hair and tingeing his ears and cheeks with red. He glanced up at Carwood from where his eyes were fixed on the ground. To most of the boys he probably would have looked completely blank, but Carwood thought there were rueful notes playing across his face. 

“Can I come in?” Ron asked. Carwood nodded and watched intently as he stepped inside. Although he didn't seem to notice, Ron also stepped over the salt line Carwood had laid right against the door jam. Carwood breathed out a silent sigh of relief punctuated with a wet cough and put his revolver down on the table. 

“I've been met at gunpoint before but never by you,” Ron said, and Carwood could see that he wanted to relieve the tension in the room. But Carwood couldn't bring himself to play along, to pretend he hadn't broken their friendship. 

Ron walked a little further into the room and Carwood could see him taking note of everything: Carwood’s bag, always fully packed for a quick exit at the foot of the bed, the salt rounds scattered across the table, the suit from earlier hung in the open closet. Carwood almost felt like he was back in the army at muster and fought the urge to straighten up. He wasn't in the army anymore and he wouldn't fallback on that with Ron just because he felt uneasy.

Ron finally completed his inspection of the room and turned back to Carwood, sighing deeply as he did so. “Jesus, Carwood, I’m not going to bite.” 

Carwood didn’t say anything, trying to look casual by leaning against the wall. He felt like the way he folded his arms and stared fixedly at the ground probably gave the game away though. 

Ron cursed quietly before speaking again. “Look, I don’t like how this has played out anymore than you but—” he took a deep breath. “What if I say I believed you? About the demon.” 

Carwood froze and looked up at Ron, almost not daring to breathe. “What?” 

Ron met his gaze for a second before glancing down, digging in his pocket and taking out his smokes. “What if I believed you?” 

“I’d say that was quite a turn around,” Carwood said slowly, eyeing the way Ron was fiddling with the cigarette pack. 

Ron snorted. “Yeah, you and me both.” He tapped out a cigarette, paused to look at Carwood consideringly, then tapped out another. He held it out to Carwood, meeting his gaze solidly for the first time since he’d entered the room. Carwood hesitated then plucked it from his hand, accepting the lighter when Ron handed it over. 

It felt obscene, after this morning, to be smoking together with Ron, Ron who was talking about a demon beyond the hypothetical sense. Carwood had been sure that he and Ron would never speak to each other as friends again and the lack of that surety now left him floundering. 

Finally, Carwood mustered the wherewithal to speak, mostly because it seemed like Ron wasn't going to. “I guess I'd wonder what caused such a change in thought.” 

Ron nodded but didn't answer, taking the time to finish his cigarette. Carwood didn't bother smoking anymore of his, just let it burn down in his hand. His stomach was already roiling and the nicotine was making his head spin. 

Ron finished his smoke off and stubbed the butt in an ashtray. Only after that did he look back at Carwood. “I came to see you because I—I—fuck.” He rubbed a hand quickly over his eyes before scrabbling for another cigarette. Apparently they were only going to get through this conversation if Ron was chain smoking. That seemed promising. 

“Ron,” Carwood said softly. Ron glanced up from lighting his smoke. “I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean—” He cut himself off because he wasn't sure how he planned to finish that sentence. Didn't mean what? To get caught? Because that was the ultimate problem. He couldn't apologize for pretending to be an FBI agent to gain admittance to Ron's sister’s house, not knowing he fully intended to do it again when a case called for it. He couldn't even apologize for questioning Mrs. Reynolds; while he regretted the necessity of it, that wouldn't stop him from doing it over again to catch a monster. The only thing he truly felt sorry about was that Ron had caught him at it and discovered his lies and that wasn't something Carwood deserved any kind of forgiveness for. Carwood buried the end of that sentence in the shame swimming like tar in his gut. 

Ron continued to look at him for a moment then grunted and turned back to his smoke. “I'm not here about that, Carwood.” 

Carwood swallowed and nodded, turning his gaze back to the floor. He waited for Ron to speak, but minutes passed between them in silence while Ron worked away at his smoke. Carwood realized that he would probably need to coax Ron through this conversation, whatever it was. 

“Ron, whatever you want to say to me, it's not going to be any easier to say after you're done smoking.” 

Ron didn't reply, but he did stub his cigarette out after one last drag. Then he turned to Carwood and finally started speaking, in the crisp and rapid way he had when giving orders. Carwood almost straightened in reflex but managed to resist at the last second. 

“After you left,” Ron said, managing to neatly avoid any mention of how Carwood came to leave, “I talked to Ellie about the things you mentioned. The sulfur, the storm, the...odd behavior. She confirmed it all. She might also think I’m crazy now, but—” Ron shrugged rather than finish his sentence. 

“So, what are you saying? You—you believe me now?” Carwood asked, shocked. It couldn’t possibly be that easy, not after the nightmare of earlier. 

“I’m saying that Ellie confirmed what you told me, which seems to indicate that what you told me is true. Demons are real and there’s one possessing my brother-in-law.” He said it matter-of-factly, but his expression was mildly confused, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. His hand dug into his pocket for his smokes for a moment before he took his empty hand out and folded his arms over his chest instead. 

Carwood didn’t even know where to start with that. People almost never took him at face value; they always needed to see the evidence for themselves, usually in the form of a monster doing its best to rip their guts out, before they were willing to accept the only explanation for what was happening to them. He’d never dealt with someone coming up to him and simply stating ‘I believe you’. 

“So, where is this thing? And how do we kill it?” Ron asked, casually. 

And there were so many things wrong with those questions that Carwood was finally shocked into speaking. 

“You can’t kill a demon. And ‘we’ aren’t doing anything. I’ll take care of this.” 

Ron fixed him with a glare. “Like hell. You’re not doing this alone.” 

Carwood shook his head. “You’re not coming with me, it’s too dangerous.” 

“And it’s not dangerous for you?” Ron asked, arching his brows skeptically. 

“I know what I’m doing. I can take care of myself.” 

“So can I.” 

“Yes, I know, against humans. But a demon is completely different.” Carwood said, staring Ron down. “You’re not coming. Go home and be with your sister.” 

Ron stared right back, stubbornness written across his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. Then he broke their gaze, flicking his eyes away to the floor before looking back at Carwood. A hint of vulnerability lingered in his face. 

“It’s my brother-in-law, Carwood. He’s family.” He paused, then continued. “You’d do the same if you were me.” 

Carwood swallowed heavily, unable to deny it. If it was his family, god forbid if it was Leland— 

He wouldn’t hesitate. Nothing would prevent him coming along. 

So even though Carwood knew better than to take an unprepared civilian on a hunt, even one with as much combat experience as Ron, he found himself nodding. He looked away quickly so he wouldn’t have to see the smug look Ron always wore when he got his way. 

“Now that's settled, how do we kill it?” At least Ron managed to keep any satisfaction out of his tone. 

“We don't,” Carwood said again. “Demons can't be killed, only exorcised.” 

Ron frowned. “I thought that was what you did, kill things like this.” 

“Demons aren't like other monsters, they're not flesh and blood. The only thing you'll accomplish by trying to kill one is killing the host. Jeremy.”

Ron looked disturbed by this. “Alright, then how do we exorcise it?” 

“First we trap it,” Carwood sighed, glancing over at the notes and news clippings he’d collected so far. “But to do that, we need to find it.” 

“Wait a minute, you don't know where it is?” Ron demanded. 

Carwood moved over to his papers. “Demons are hard to track precisely. You can find one's general area by looking for omens like this.” He held out one of the local newspapers describing cattle mutilations in the county out to Ron. Ron made a face but accepted it, eyes scanning the headlines. 

“But that doesn't help us narrow it down to a precise location. We just know its in the area,” Carwood continued. 

“What about motive? Why take Jeremy, why not someone else?” Ron asked, flipping through the newspaper. 

Carwood looked at him for moment, scanning article after article in vain for something that would explain all this. It made Carwood’s heart throb with pity, something he knew Ron would hate. “Demons don't usually have any motive beyond causing pain. More than likely, Jeremy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Carwood said gently. 

Ron looked up at him from the newspaper then folded it and set it aside with a sigh. “Then how the hell do we find this thing?” 

Carwood looked at him for a moment longer before moving over toward Ron. He took the article out of Ron’s hand, glancing at the headline then putting it back on the table, the beginning of a headache throbbing in his temples. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. So far, I’ve been playing catch up with this thing. I need to get ahead of it.” Carwood flipped the papers himself before folding them back into a stack and setting them down. He looked back up at Ron to find him silently looking back, a slight crease between his brows. Carwood glanced away, his eyes catching on the salt rounds he’d left lying on the table. Ma would disapprove of his equipment being in such a mess. 

“There must be something we can do,” Ron said, voice softer. Carwood looked back up at him, not expecting that tone of voice after everything that had happened today. Ron didn’t say anything else, his eyes dark. The crease lingered between his brows, but the lines around his eyes had softened and his mouth was slacker, the corners less taut. It reminded Carwood of the way he had looked during the quieter moments of Carwood’s illness, half-stern, half-encouraging. Carwood almost flinched away from it. He had no right to that expression, to those feelings, not from Ron. Ron shouldn’t be here in this hotel room, extending small kindnesses to the liar who has his only chance at getting his brother-in-law back whole. 

It wasn’t fair, Carwood thought for a brief, bitter moment. This entire situation, none of it was fair. The Reynolds’ didn’t deserve to have such a tragedy befall them. Ron didn’t deserve a burden like this being added to his shoulders. And Carwood, he thought selfishly, didn’t deserve to be the one to add it. 

But life—hunting—it wasn’t fair, and it never had been. Carwood had no right to expect differently now. All he could do was push through, finish the case, and bring Jeremy home to his family. 

Carwood turned back to his notes with renewed vigour. “Demons don’t usually have a motive but, from what I understand, their actions are sometimes tied to a ritual, something linked to the area, a time, or a goal. If we can figure out what that is, maybe we can track it better.” 

“From what you understand?” Ron asked. All softness was gone from his tone, leaving behind an almost shocked confusion.

Carwood paused, glancing up from a particularly gruesome headline. “What?” 

Ron stared at him for second, then said, “you’ve never hunted a demon before, have you?” 

Carwood ducked his head. “No, I haven’t.” 

“Perfect,” Ron muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. Carwood felt himself start to flush. 

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, and wished he felt as sure as he sounded. He knew the lore, he had the right equipment, he had the will to carry him through, all the tools a good hunter needed. Besides, it was too late to call for backup, even if there was anyone available, not unless he wanted to lose the demon again. 

“Is there anything significant about this town? Anything you know about—violent deaths, sudden tragedies, anything that might attract a demon.” 

“I’m not exactly an expert on local history,” Ron said wryly. “If you want to know something about ancient Rome, then I can help you out.” 

Carwood resisted the unexpected urge to smile. “I’ll let you know.” 

He turned back to his papers, wracking his brain, hoping there was something here to help them. He needed to find Jeremy as soon as possible; the longer they took, the more likely the demon would get what it came for and kill him. Carwood needed to find him. He needed to make all of this worth something. 

“Actually,” Ron said from behind him. Carwood turned and saw Ron studying a paper Carwood had pinned to the wall. Ron gestured him over and pointed to a small mention of another story on the page. It discussed a memorial service for a young girl held a few years previous. 

“I remember Jeremy telling me about this,” Ron said. “It’s not mentioned in the paper but apparently the father drowned her. No one was ever sure why and he’s locked up now, but—” he glanced at Carwood. “Could that be something this demon is interested in?” 

A young, innocent girl, killed by her own father, polluting the bond between parent and child. If the demon was acting towards the completion of some kind of ritual, if that ritual needed to use the sites of violent deaths, if the demon wasn’t just acting on a random whim to explore the country with a new host in every state—

It was a lot of ifs, and it was dangerous to try to apply logic to an illogical creature. But it was the best lead they had. “It’s possible.” 

Ron’s eyes lit up with the same fervent light they’d had when Easy had blazed a trail between Foy and Rachamps. “Well, let's go check it out.” 

“Wait,” Carwood said, turning to dig in his bag. “If you’re coming with me, then put this on,” Carwood said, holding out the amulet. Ron hesitated and then took it, the cord hanging from his hand. 

“What is it?”

“It’s an anti-possession amulet, it’ll keep you safe from the demon.” Ron didn’t move to put it on, just stared at him for a long moment. Carwood stared back unflinchingly and put a note of steel in his voice. “You’re not coming if you don’t wear it.” 

Ron looked at him a moment longer before his lips quirked up in the slightest smile. “Yes, sir.” 

Carwood rolled his eyes and turned back to his bag, grateful Ron was willing to listen to him, even now. Any good will that Ron still had for him after everything was far more than Carwood deserved. 

He pushed those thoughts away and pulled out his bottles of holy water and a couple boxes of salt. He divided them up between himself and Ron. Then he pulled out the bolt of cloth he'd painted his devils trap on and the Latin inscription for the exorcism. 

“Take this.” Ron did, glancing at Carwood quizzically. “It’s the invocation we have to say to expel the demon. Try to memorize it before we get there.” 

Ron was reading through the invocation with a growing frown. “This word’s declined improperly.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Ron flipped the paper around and pointed to the word in question. “This should be in imperative but it's in the ablative.” 

Carwood looked at Ron blankly. “How could you possibly know that?” 

A smirk started twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I took Latin in college.” 

Carwood couldn't help but laugh, that familiar warmth he remembered feeling around Ron so often blooming in his chest. He looked down to finish grabbing his supplies and held out some of the holy water. “Here, take this.” 

Ron didn't take them and Carwood glanced up to find him already looking back. His expression was oddly soft in a way that made Carwood uncomfortable. 

“What is it?” 

Ron shook his head, taking the holy water and directing his gaze back toward the paper. “Nothing. Do you have a pencil? I can fix this.” 

“Over on the table,” Carwood said, pointing. “After you're done, we should gear up and head out. I don't want to risk losing this thing.” 

Ron nodded absently, already absorbed in checking the Latin. Absently rubbing the face of his watch, Carwood gave himself a minute to watch Ron: the lines of his body as he bent over the table, the furrow of his brow as he thought, the shadow the light cast from his lashes over his cheeks. Then Carwood turned back to getting his hunting supplies together, trying to breathe through the dread gathering in his gut. 

 

\-----------

 

It was hardly the first time Carwood had had to tell someone about the existence of the supernatural. He had lost track of the number of times he had walked people, already scared because of the werewolf that had attacked them or the shifter who had looked like their mother lying decapitated on the floor, through the necessary questions and answers. Yes, monsters were real. Yes, they could still be safe, he would show them a few things they could use to protect themselves and their families. Yes, he hunted monsters. 

But they were usually strangers, people the creatures had targeted or people who had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was rare that Carwood needed to tell someone he knew any better than in passing; his family already knew and his friends hopefully never would. There was only one other time he could think of. 

They had been stationed in Hagenau and Carwood was spending most of his time lying on a couch and coughing. Speirs and Doc Roe were tracking his every move, bullying him into resting despite the lines of exhaustion embedded in their expressions. Luz seemed to have developed a super human ability to find blankets that he kept piling on top of Carwood. For his part, Carwood did his best to distribute the excess blankets to the boys who needed them more after he managed to sneak out of Company CP without Speirs noticing. This usually ended in one of the boys grabbing him by the arm and escorting him back to the CP while Carwood tried not to double over coughing. 

That day, it was Malarkey dragging him back across the town, muttering under his breath about irresponsible sergeants as they went. Carwood couldn’t help a surge of pride as he thought back to D-Day and Malarkey’s ill-conceived dash for a luger. He had come a long way since then. They all had. 

Carwood’s thoughts darkened as he glanced sidelong at Malarkey. He had come a long way indeed, and it showed. Exhaustion seemed to cling to every inch of his body, dogging his footsteps and weighing him down. Carwood longed to pull him aside and send him off the line, get him some reprieve somehow, except he knew Malarkey would never take it. The best Carwood could do was check in on him, make sure he was doing as well as could be expected, and give him something else to think about, even if that was hauling his wheezing First Sergeant back to Company CP.  

But Malarkey seemed distracted by more than Carwood; he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he knew something was following them but he couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of it. Now, this behaviour wasn’t odd for a soldier; Carwood did it often enough himself. What was odd about it was that Malarkey wasn’t looking toward the Germans across the river; he was looking behind them, toward where most of the men were billeted. 

“You okay, Malark?” Carwood asked quietly, suppressing the cough that wanted to punctuate the question. 

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine,” Malarkey said absently, sending another glance look over his shoulder. He looked back at Carwood and gave him a forced smile. “Unlike you. You ever take a break from looking after people, Lip?” 

Carwood huffed a laugh, which was a mistake because it immediately made him cough. The fit was so bad that he had to stop walking, bent over and holding on to Malarkey’s shoulder in the middle of the street. Finally, after what felt like ages, it passed, leaving his throat raw. 

Malarkey chivvied him onward, the worry on his face poorly hidden under false cheer. Carwood tried to look less like he felt like lying down right there among the rubble, damn the German artillery, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other until Malarkey handed him off to Luz and the pile of blankets which seemed to have multiplied in his absence. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t rat you out to the Captain,” Malarkey said in an exaggerated whisper, patting him on the shoulder. Carwood gave him a weak smile, having learned his lesson about the dangers of laughter, and watched as he left, worry pooling in his stomach. 

Malarkey just seemed to get more and more jumpy as the days wore on, glancing over his shoulder near constantly as the lines of exhaustion bit deeper into his face. Some of the other boys even came to Carwood, quietly worried. Carwood did his best to assuage their fears, but the truth was he was just as worried, an anxiety that deepened every time he saw Malarkey searching for something that wasn’t there. 

It finally came to a head one day, shortly before that damn patrol. Carwood was sitting on the couch in the CP, trying to catch his breath after walking down the stairs from the room he and Speirs were sharing and watching the walls spin dizzily around him. He had looked up at the sound of footsteps to see Malarkey entering the room. He hesitated in the doorway, an odd mixture of hesitation and shame crossing his face before he came all the way in. 

“Hey, Malark,” Carwood said, his scraped to hell throat making the words come out hoarse and thick, “You alright?” 

Malarkey nodded and then sat down next to him silently. Carwood budged over and made some room, turning to give Malarkey his full attention. He narrowed his eyes in the hope that it would help the room stop spinning. 

Malarkey didn’t say anything, leaning forward and dropping his head into his hands. Carwood placed his hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and waited patiently for Malarkey to speak. 

For a few long minutes, they just sat together, listening to the sounds of the men outside and the occasional distant gunshot. Carwood felt himself drifting, weariness getting the better of him and making his eyes feel heavy. He was called back to the room when Malarkey finally spoke. 

“I think I need to be taken off the line, Lip,” Malarkey said quietly, more to the floor than to Carwood. 

Carwood felt his stomach drop. On the one hand, he was relieved that Malarkey was finally talking to him about whatever was wrong; on the other, that meant that whatever it was, it was bad enough that Malarkey felt obligated to tell him. 

Carwood let the grip on Malarkey’s shoulder change to soothing circles on his back. Malarkey seemed to melt a little under his hand. 

“It's just,” he continued, “I'm...I'm seeing things. Things that aren't there. People that—” he choked off into silence for a long moment before muttering, “I saw Skip, the other day. Just standing in the street, like it was nothing. And this morning I saw Penkala, but he—he was all blown to hell.” Malarkey’s voice started to wobble and Carwood pulled him close. Malarkey let his head rest on Carwood’s shoulder with a deep sigh. 

“If I'm seeing things, then I'm losing it. And if I'm losing it, then I'm a danger to the guys,” Malarkey finished in a monotone. Carwood tightened his grip around his shoulders. 

Malarkey was right; if he was seeing things then he needed to go off the line as soon as possible, both for his sake and the men's. 

But Carwood knew that just because you were seeing things that shouldn't rightly be there, didn't mean you were going nuts. He'd seen plenty of things himself that would make most folks think he was insane. It was possible that Malarkey was suffering from a simple case of shell shock, painful and horrible to endure, but ultimately recoverable. But the specific nature of his visions, the specific people he’d seen—if it was supernatural in origin, then it would kill Malarkey just as surely as a bullet. 

But Skip and Penkala—they couldn't be here, Carwood had seen to that. Between the cleansing ritual he'd managed to scrounge up the ingredients for and performed at the foxhole where they died and the blessing he'd said over Skip’s rosary, there was no way they hadn't moved on. It was the one thing that really comforted him about it, knowing they weren't lingering in the woods or trapped in their last moments as a death echo. 

So if there was a supernatural creature bothering Malarkey, it wasn't the spirits of his dead friends. And if Carwood wanted to figure out what it was and not send Malarkey away with it still hunting him, then he needed to keep Malarkey close, no matter how badly Malarkey needed the rest.

“If you want to go off the line, I'll make that happen,” he said, rubbing Malarkey’s shoulder. “But I think it might be a good idea to try getting a good night's sleep first, see if that helps.” 

Malarkey snorted. “Yeah, that's real likely around here.” 

Carwood studied the dark circles under his eyes, thinking about how much worse they’d gotten in the past few days. “Tell you what, why don't you bunk down with me tonight. It'd be a bit quieter.” 

Malarkey drew back a little to look him in the face. “Aren't you sharing with Captain Speirs?” 

Carwood smiled. “Don't worry about that, I'll talk him around.” 

Malarkey smiled back, albeit weakly. “If anyone could, it'd be you, Lip.”  

Carwood drew him back in and they sat there for a while in peace. Malarkey grew heavier and heavier against his side, obviously feeling secure enough to try to rest. Carwood felt the twisting in his gut that he always felt when his boys were hurting. What if he was wrong about this and the best place for Malarkey was the aid station? But his instincts were rarely wrong and they were practically screaming at him that something else was going on here. Besides, if Malarkey really did need a doctor, he was hardly likely to get the help he needed from any doctors around here. 

They sat together long enough that Malarkey started to drowse on his shoulder. He startled awake when Speirs entered the room, renewed nerves settling on his face as soon as he realized who it was. Speirs just looked at them blankly, shifting his grip on the bundle of silver candlesticks under his arm. Carwood patted Malarkey’s shoulder one last time and heaved himself to his feet. 

“Sir? Could we talk?” he asked, voice thick and filled with phlegm after so long not speaking. Speirs tipped his head toward the next room, eyes flicking between him and Malarkey before heading out the door. Carwood followed him, throwing another reassuring glance over his shoulder at Malarkey. 

Speirs walked straight over to the side table, putting his candlesticks down with a clang. At least Carwood wouldn't have to go far to find silver if he did need it, he thought wryly, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“What is it?” Speirs asked as he turned to face Carwood. 

Carwood stifled a cough. “Sir, I was wondering if Malarkey could bunk down with us tonight. He's feeling a little under the weather and could use a good night's sleep.” 

Speirs looked at him for a long moment, that way he did when he wanted to make someone uncomfortable enough that they would say more. Carwood waited him out. 

Speirs ducked his head, the hint of a smile on his face quickly hidden. “That sounds fine. Might as well put all the sick people together.” 

Carwood quickly stifled a smile, the warmth in his chest warning him of an oncoming cough and the dangers of even thinking of laughter. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” 

Speirs nodded and Carwood turned to leave, his thoughts already turning toward the possible hunt. He'd need to watch Malarkey all through the night, looking for any kind of supernatural interference. Maybe he could scrounge up some salt, but he doubted it. 

“Sergeant.” 

Carwood turned back to Speirs. “Yes, sir?” 

Speirs was leaning against the desk, his arms crossed. “How many times am I going to have to ask you to call me Ron when we're alone?” 

Warmth flooded Carwood’s chest again and he only hoped it wasn't on his face as well. “At least one more time, sir.” 

Speirs ducked his head again and this time Carwood caught the beginning of a grin on his face as he turned away. Carwood fought down his own smile and left the room to tell Malarkey the good news. 

Speirs was out late that night in a meeting with Winters so Carwood and Malarkey were alone as they bunked down. Malarkey had outright refused to kick Carwood out of the bed and Carwood had refused to let Malarkey sleep on the floor so they were sharing it, curled close together so they could both fit on the small mattress. It reminded Carwood of sharing his bed with his brother when they were young, especially in the years right after Pa died. How they'd go to sleep together, lying beside each other in the dark and whispering about anything that came to mind. 

It reminded him even more of that time when Malarley started to shift in his sleep under the blankets, making soft discontent noises. He was having a nightmare, Carwood realized immediately, and reached out to brush his hair back, murmuring soothing nonsense. After a minute, Malarkey started to settle, rubbing his face deeper into his pillow. Carwood kept stroking his hair for a while, worry and fondness for Malarkey mixing with a whisper of longing for his brother and home. He did his best not to think of home, but he couldn't help it when so many elements of his life there seemed to be finding their way to him now. 

The night passed in the same way, Malarkey having the occasional nightmare which Carwood soothed away. Speirs ghosted into the room sometime in the early morning, closing the door silently behind him. His eyes drifted over the bed and a small frown spread across his brows. Malarkey was just coming down from another nightmare and Carwood kept rubbing his back as he looked up at Speirs. 

Speirs looked at Malarkey for a long moment before his eyes flicked up to Carwood. “He can stay for a few nights more if he wants.” 

Carwood nodded, letting out a quiet breath of relief which turned into a few coughs. “Thank you, sir.” 

Speirs didn't acknowledge the thanks and moved over to the part of the room by the window he'd claimed as his own. “And tell him in the morning that I want him as my runner for the next couple days.”

Carwood nodded again, absently rubbing his hand against his chest to try to dissipate the warmth there. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” 

“Well, I can't have you running around the entire town trying to keep an eye on him.” Speirs said, throwing an amused glance over his shoulder. 

Carwood huffed a laugh and immediately broke into a violent coughing fit. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder as he bent over with the force of his coughing. After an eternity, the fit passed. He immediately looked beside him to check on Malarkey but he was so tired he'd barely shifted at all. Then Carwood glanced up at Speirs, who was still standing beside him holding his shoulder. Speirs looked at him for a moment before turning to grab his canteen. 

“Alright?” He asked as he handed it over. 

“I'm fine, sir.” Carwood said roughly before taking a long drink of water. The bitterly cold water soothed his raw throat but he could feel a renewed chill spread through his body. 

Speirs took the canteen back and moved back over to his kit bag. He started to get ready for bed, taking off his webbing and loosening his laces. 

“Sir?” Carwood said and Speirs glanced back at him before turning back to his laces. 

“Yes, Sergeant?” 

“Are you sure you won't take the bed? I'm up anyway.” 

Speirs snorted in amusement, shooting Carwood a wry look. “You shouldn't be.” And Carwood knew he wouldn't hear any further arguments about Carwood taking his place on the floor. 

“At least take a couple blankets, sir. I don't know where Luz found all these but I don't need all of them.” 

Speirs gave him a considering look, then stepped over and lifted the uppermost blanket off the pile. When Carwood tried to give him another, Speirs shook his head. 

“Keep it,” he said shortly and moved back over to his kit bag. Carwood looked down at the blanket he was holding, slightly finer than all the rest, and felt a horrible sense of dawning realization that Luz had more than likely not been the only one going around scrounging blankets for him. At least the heat of embarrassment he felt at that chased away the lingering chill in his bones. 

Carwood was distracted from his embarrassment—and the sheen of pleasure lurking underneath that he desperately wanted to ignore—by the conspicuous lack of movement coming from Speirs’ corner of the room. He looked up and caught Speirs staring out the window with a renewed frown. 

“Sir?” Carwood asked. “What is it?” 

Speirs didn’t say anything at first, then shook his head without stopping looking out the window. “It’s nothing, Sergeant. Try to sleep.” 

Carwood frowned at this lacklustre response. “With respect, sir, it doesn’t seem like nothing.” 

Speirs’ flicked a look at him, amusement creeping unto his face, before he fixed his gaze out the window again. “There’s a Private from Fox standing outside staring at the building.”

“Is he lost?” Carwood asked, grabbing the blankets on his lap in preparation to remove them. If the Private was lost, he should go down there and redirect him to his billet. 

Speirs shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He’s just...staring.” Then he quirked his head to the side. “And now he’s leaving.” 

A suspicion started to grow in the back of Carwood’s mind. “Do you know which Private it was?” 

Speirs paused then shook his head again. “No, I can’t remember.” He said, sounding frustrated with himself. He reached up to rub at his eyes, sighing deeply as he did. Carwood felt his gut twist, the same way he did whenever he saw one of the boys hurting. 

“You should get some sleep, sir.” Carwood said gently. It was a mark of how tired Speirs was that he didn’t protest, nodding wearily and turning to spread his blanket on the floor boards. 

He turned back to Carwood, then paused when Malarkey let out a deep sigh, turning over in his sleep to sling an arm around Carwood’s waist. Carwood tried to meet Speirs’ laughing eyes placidly, but knew he’d started to blush something fierce. 

Speirs ducked his head and turned back to his blanket, but not before Carwood saw the smile that was stretching his lips. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sergeant.” he said, wriggling into his sleeping bag and pulling the extra blanket over top. Carwood murmured his own goodnight then laid down carefully to avoid setting his lungs off or disturbing Malarkey. He needn’t have worried about that last part: Malarkey just tightened his arm as soon as Carwood was lying down to snuggle up against his back. Carwood rolled his eyes and settled into the embrace. The embarrassment was no longer so acute now that Speirs wasn’t watching him—though he swore he could see Speirs’ shoulders shaking in laughter over there, the bastard—and the added warmth was a comfort. 

In Carwood’s experience, there was no such thing as coincidences. Almost every hunt he had ever been on, it was a combination of hard work and happenstance that ended up answering the ever important question: what kind of monster was it? And the mysterious Private from Fox Company, standing outside the billet Malarkey was staying in the middle of the night, seemed exactly the kind of happenstance he had needed. 

It couldn't be something like a werewolf; they had little control over their actions, simply acting on the base impulses of the human they were ensnared with. They were like a rabid dog. A werewolf wouldn't let something as small as a closed door and a couple innocent bystanders get between them and their prey. Besides, a werewolf didn't have any ability or desire to create the disturbing visions Malarkey had described. So it was doubtful it was a werewolf, despite the moonlight beaming through the window from the almost full moon outside. Carwood couldn't help but be grateful for this—he had no idea where he'd find or create a silver bullet around here. He'd probably end up taking one Speirs’ candle sticks and making do with that. 

A vampire didn't make any sense either: Malarkey had no signs of being fed on and while many vampires were sadistic enough to want to cause their victims distress, they didn't have the ability to shape shift or cause hallucinations.

Which brought Carwood to the obvious conclusion: a shapeshifter. A shifter could take on the form of Skip and Penkala and its possible one would be cruel enough to disturb Malarkey in that way. And a shifter would also be able to take the form of an anonymous Private to avoid detection, which more than likely meant the actual Private was dead. But what would be the point? Shifters didn't have straightforward motives like hunger. They often had more—bizarrely enough—human motives like jealousy, greed, or anger. What the hell was one doing in a warzone and what did it want with Malarkey? 

Malarkey made a soft noise behind him and pressed a little closer. Carwood realized he had stiffened in anger the more he thought about what exactly was coming after his boy and took a deep, rattling breath to try to calm down. 

As he managed to shove the anger away, he remembered something Malarkey had said, well, implied. He had been the only one able to see Skip and Penkala: it had been one of the reasons that he thought he was losing his mind. And shifters didn't have that ability—they were visible to everyone in whatever form they took. Not even spirits had that ability.

Uncomfortably, Carwood let himself consider the possibility that he was wrong, that Malarkey truly needed medical help, and that Carwood was causing more harm than good the longer he delayed. But—would that truly explain how quickly Malarkey had changed from the strong and capable man Carwood knew to the paranoid man he was now? Even after losing Skip, Penk, and Buck, Malarkey had continued on, quiet and sad, but steady. It was only since they’d arrived in Hagenau that Malarkey had changed. Carwood was no doctor, but he didn't think something like that would happen so fast. With Buck there had been signs he was breaking, signs that encouraged Carwood to step up more and more in the hopes that Buck's burden would be lessened. 

God, he felt like the answer was on the tip of his tongue, lurking in the back of his mind. He knew this monster, he was sure of it. Something that could make apparitions appear to only one person, something which could affect the way a person felt, something with a motive that would lead it to stand outside frustrated it couldn't get to its intended victim but lacked the brute strength to shove its way in. 

Carwood almost sat straight up as a bolt of realization spiked up his spine. The only thing that stopped him was the arm Malarkey had draped over his waist. Malarkey made a sharp noise, which made Speirs twitch across the room before he settled again with a deep sigh. Carwood waited a minute to make sure they were both asleep again before letting the epiphany unfurl in his mind. 

It was a wraith. It had to be. 

Carwood had never personally hunted a wraith but he had heard of them. They fed on the human brain via a spike in their wrist which punched through tissue and bone into the skull. They seemed to enjoy the taste of people experiencing some kind of mental or emotional distress, the more severe the better. And to ensure a constant supply of food, they could implant these emotions into their prey. 

Carwood had heard the story of the wraith at least a hundred times from Ma. She and Pa had met for the first time hunting a wraith, after all. For a while after Pa died he had hated that story because he knew how their lives together ended but now he felt so grateful he could cry. 

He knew what he needed to save Malarkey. He wouldn't lose another of his boys, not if there was anything he could do to stop it.  

Resolute, Carwood decided to try to catch at least a little sleep before morning. He shoved his head into his pillow and shut his eyes but couldn't actually manage to sleep, his mind too wired over the upcoming hunt. He finally slipped into a light doze shortly before dawn only to be shaken out of it what felt like minutes later by Malarkey sitting up. 

Carwood looked up at him blearily as Malarkey stretched and yawned. He looked better than he had yesterday, more rested, less stressed. The ever present sadness that lingered in his face these days was still there, but muted for now. 

Malarkey yawned again then glanced over at Carwood. The pinch of stress immediately returned to his brow. “You look like shit, Lip,” he whispered, eyes flicking to Speirs who still appeared to be sleeping. 

“Thanks, that's kind of you to say,” Carwood said wryly in the same quiet tone. 

“I'm serious, you look like you barely slept. Did I keep you up?” Guilt started to enter Malarkey’s expression and Carwood wasn't going to let that stand. 

“It’s the damn pneumonia. Hard to sleep when you're coughing every five minutes.” 

Malarkey still looked doubtful. “I guess.” He looked at Carwood for a moment longer then started to extricate himself from the blankets. His movements let in the cold lingering the room and Carwood wondered how Speirs could possibly be sleeping with only one blanket in such a frigid space. 

“Malark,” he said, and Malarkey paused to look at him. “The captain wants you as his runner for the next couple days. You might as well rest until he's up.” 

Malarkey just looked at him for a few minutes, expression a mix between confusion, relief, and obstinacy. For a second, Carwood wondered if he would try to refuse and go back to join his platoon. Then Malarkey sagged back under the blankets with a mulish expression. 

“I know you have something to do with this,” he said accusingly. 

“I don't know what you mean,” Carwood said then broke into a coughing fit that seemed endless. He felt hands haul him up to a sitting position and could barely hear two voices speaking over his continued hacking. He finally managed to catch his breath, although he could feel it wheezing deep in his chest. He looked up to see Malarkey and Speirs on either side of him, looking at him in concern. 

“I'm alright,” Carwood managed to say weakly. Speirs shook his head and reached out to lay his palm on Carwood’s forehead. It was blissfully cold and Carwood couldn't help closing his eyes. 

“Your fever’s up again.” Speirs said. Carwood didn't say anything in response. He'd figured it was, judging by the stuffy feeling of cotton in his head. 

Speirs took his hand away and Carwood managed to not lean after it through some force of will he didn't know he had. He cracked his eyes open to watch Speirs stride over to his blanket on the floor. He picked it up and put it back over Carwood. 

“I'll have Doc come take a look at you this morning,” he said, returning to his kit bag to pull on his webbing and helmet. “Malarkey, stay here and keep and eye on him. Make sure he doesn't wander off before Roe shows up.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Speirs nodded to both of them then left the room without another word, slinging his Thompson over his shoulder. 

Carwood sighed and looked at Malarkey. Malarkey shrugged. “Don't look at me. You heard him; you're not moving until Doc sees you. So you might as well get some more sleep.” 

Carwood nodded wearily. It made sense; he'd be useless on a hunt if he was so sick and exhausted he couldn't even see straight. 

But that knowledge didn't help sleep come. He managed to doze again while waiting for Roe but somehow that just made him feel worse, like his body had only just realized how much it needed sleep and wanted to punish him until he yielded and gave it some. 

After an indeterminate amount of time, Speirs re-entered the room with Roe hot on his heels. Roe immediately walked over to the bed and perched on the side to give Carwood a look over. He checked Carwood’s temperature, made him take a few deep breaths and talked him gently through the coughs that followed. Finally, he sat back and looked at Carwood for a long moment before speaking. 

“You’ve gotten worse. Your temperature is up and your lungs sound like they have more fluid. I think you should go to the aid station, rest up until this passes.” 

Carwood was already shaking his head before Roe finished speaking. “No.” 

“Sergeant—”

“I’m not going off the line, Doc.” 

Roe sighed. “Figured you’d say that.” He turned to look at Speirs, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, eyes peering out from under his helmet. “He needs to rest, as much as possible. Preferably in a bed.” 

Speirs nodded and straightened up. “Done.” He fixed Carwood with a piercing look. “You stay in that bed. You’re not to leave this room unless the building is burning down. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” Carwood said, resisting the urge to protest that he wasn’t a child who needed to be put down for a nap. He was a grown man and a soldier and a hunter and he was more than capable of looking after himself. 

Speirs gave a hard look then turned to Malarkey. “Make sure he stays here.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Carwood again held his tongue, swallowing the urge to say something biting about not needed a caretaker. He must not have done as good a job of hiding it as he thought because Speirs’ face softened for a second before he started digging in his pocket. He whipped something out and tossed it toward Carwood. “Here. Rest up.” Then he left the room without another word. 

Carwood blinked after him and looked down to see what Speirs had given him. It was a chocolate bar, some fancy French kind. Carwood huffed a laugh, miraculously managing to not break down coughing, and divided the bar between himself, Malarkey, and Roe. 

Malarkey gave a low whistle as he took a bite. “Damn, I think I forgot what chocolate tasted like.” He nudged Carwood with his elbow. “You have to teach me how to do that. Preferably before I have kids.” 

Carwood frowned at him. “I didn’t do anything.” 

Malarkey snorted. “Yeah, sure.” 

Carwood looked at Roe for support, but Roe wasn’t listening. He was staring down at the chocolate in his lap with an unreadable look on his face. Carwood reached out and put his hand on Roe’s knee. 

“Doc? You alright?” he asked gently. Roe snapped out his daze and nodded before looking up. 

“I’m fine, Lip. You just rest up. I’ll come check on you later.” And he left the room, chocolate still gripped tightly in his hand. 

“He seem alright to you?” Malarkey asked, eyes still on the doorway. 

“Not really,” Carwood said, but then, Roe hadn’t seemed ‘alright’ since before Bastogne. Carwood had done what he could to try to ease his burden, but he knew it hadn’t been near enough. 

He looked at his own chocolate for a moment before wrapping it back up and putting it on the side table. He didn’t think he could stomach anything that rich right now, anyway. 

“Look, I’m sorry about this, Marlark. I didn’t mean to turn you into a glorified babysitter.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Malarkey asked, nudging him repeatedly until Carwood laid down to escape his elbow. “I’d rather be in here than out there in that muck.” His face darkened briefly before he forcibly brightened, taking another bite of his chocolate. 

“How are you feeling?” Carwood asked, trying to change the subject before Malarkey had the opportunity to dwell on his verbal misstep. 

Malarkey considered for a second then nodded. “Better, actually. Guess you were right.” 

“Have you seen anything?” Carwood asked, this time a bit more hesitantly. He was used to talking to people about awkward things, you had to be as a hunter, but it wasn't usually someone he knew so well. 

But Malarkey shook his head, staring fixedly at the window so he wouldn't have to look at Carwood. Carwood put his hand on his knee and squeezed. “That's good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Malarkey said, shooting Carwood a wry look before finishing off his chocolate. 

Carwood let himself look at Malarkey for a few minutes. He did look better; his color was up and his eyes seemed clearer. Most importantly, he wasn't checking every exit with an air of desperate paranoia that was foreign on him. 

Carwood felt a renewal of the slow boiling anger that had been churning in his gut since Malarkey came to him. He wanted to get out there, hunt down this thing that had dared to prey on one of his boys and end it. But he knew that was reckless; he had no idea where the thing was for starters. Besides, Malarkey would be by his side all day; Carwood would be able to look after him. 

“What are you staring at me for?” Malarkey asked, breaking Carwood out of his thoughts. 

“Nothing. Just glad you're alright.” 

Malarkey shook his head, a smile making its way onto his face. “You're going to make me blush, Lip.” 

“Well, there's a first time for everything,” Carwood teased, and smiled when it made Malarkey laugh. 

Carwood closed his eyes and tried to make his peace with letting the hunt wait. Just because it was the wiser decision didn't mean he was happy about it. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you're a really bad patient?” Malarkey asked, laughter in his voice. Carwood couldn't help but crack a smile. 

“My mother. Many times.” 

“Oh yeah? You get sick a lot as a kid?” 

Carwood nodded, confirming Malarkey’s guess rather than coming up with a new lie. This is why he didn't like to think or talk about his home or family with the boys around. He hated to lie to them. But he figured the truth—that he got injured on hunts a lot and his poor mother had to deal with his complaining through his recovery—wouldn't go over very well. At least at home he could be honest about what he was. Well. Mostly. 

They sat in companionable silence and it was only when Carwood woke up that he realized he'd fallen asleep. He sat up gingerly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It was later in the day, possibly the afternoon judging by the amount of sunlight beating in the room. 

And Malarkey was gone. 

Carwood sat up quickly, starting to throw his blankets off in his hurry to stand. What was he thinking, taking a nap at a time like this and leaving Malarkey unprotected? 

He didn't know if it was sitting up too fast or taking too deep a breath but his lungs rebelled against it, throwing him into a coughing fit that just wouldn't stop. He was reduced to sucking in what air he could get between hacking coughs, his panic about Malarkey clouding his mind. 

Suddenly the door burst open and Malarkey entered carrying a small bundle. He rushed over to the bed and sat down beside Carwood, encouraging him to lean on him. 

“Jesus Christ, Lip, I leave for five minutes and you fall apart,” he muttered, rubbing Carwood’s back. Carwood tried to breathe more deeply now, able to concentrate on it better now that Malarkey was in sight. 

But Malarkey didn't look alright. The ease from this morning was gone, replaced by poorly disguised anxiety. Despite just being outside, his face had no color in it and he was back to looking over his shoulder constantly. 

“What’s wrong?” Carwood managed to choke out between wheezing breaths. 

“Besides you doing your best to croak?” 

Carwood finally managed to calm his breathing, exhaustion from the fit making him lean heavily on Malarkey. “I'm serious, Malark. What's wrong?” 

Malarley didn't say anything for a minute, just kept rubbing Carwood’s shoulder absently while looking at the wall blankly. 

“I went to go get you something to eat,” he finally started, haltingly. “And while I was scrounging, this replacement came up to talk to me and—and when I turned around I saw his reflection and he looked all rotten. Like a fucking living corpse,” he finished in a rush, words falling out of him like a waterfall. 

Carwood felt ice run down his spine, fear freezing his breath in his lungs for a second before his instincts, honed by years of hunting and war, took over. 

“Was this a Private from Fox?” 

Malarkey gaped at him. “Yeah. How do you—” 

“Where was this?” Carwood demanded, shoving his blankets off and starting to heave himself to his feet. 

“Wait, where you going? You need to get back in bed—” 

“Where was this?” Carwood asked again, more insistently. But instead of responding to the command in his voice, Malarkey turned frustrated. 

“What does it matter?” He demanded, “I don't give a shit where I was, I give a shit that I'm going crazy!” 

“Don,” Carwood said softly, holding Malarkey’s shoulders in his hands. “You are not going crazy. You are not seeing things that aren't there. What you saw was very real and very dangerous and I need to find it.” 

Malarkey stared at him. “What?” 

“Look, I'll explain everything later but right now I need to know exactly where you were when you saw this thing.” When Malarkey just continued to stare, Carwood shook his shoulders gently. “Please, Don. Trust me.” 

Malarkey hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “I do trust you. You know I do.” 

“Alright,” Carwood said, speaking around the lump in his throat. “Alright.” 

“Uh, I was in the burned out house with the piano two blocks down that way,” Malarkey said, pointing. 

“I know the one. Was he still there when you left?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Alright. You stay here. I'm going to take care of this,” Carwood said, squeezing Malarkey’s shoulder before using the grip to help him stand. Malarkey grabbed his elbow to support him. 

“What are you going to do? Are you sure you're up to it? You're really sick.” 

“I'll be fine Malark, I've handled worse.” 

“Well, yeah, but—” Malarkey cut himself off when Carwood picked up one of the silver candlesticks Speirs had stacked near the door. “What are you going to do with that?” 

Carwood tested the heft of the candlestick and nodded to himself. It wasn't ideal but it would have to do. “I'll explain later.” Tucking the candlestick down the front of his jacket, he turned to the door.

“Speirs is going to lose it if he finds you gone,” Malarkey said from behind him. 

Carwood looked at the doorknob in his hand. “I know.” Then he turned the knob and left the room. 

The blast of cold air as he stepped outside the building was bracing and cleared the lingering cobwebs from his mind. He'd been such a fool, he thought, as he made his way down the street. He should've known better than to let this thing go on; it was a miracle the wraith hadn't killed Malarkey today. It was time to end this, no matter what it took. 

The house Malarkey had described looked the same as when they had arrived, the undamaged piano inside an incongruous sight next to the destruction of the rest of the building. Even if there hadn't been a wraith after him, Carwood would have given Malarkey hell for scrounging here: it was much too close to the river and German artillery to be safe. 

But there was a wraith after him, so nowhere was truly safe. Not until the wraith was dead. 

Carwood was just about to enter the building when movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye. His eyes snapped up and he saw a replacement, someone he recognized from Fox company but whose name escaped him, walking down the street away from him. It looked like whatever gave hunters luck was smiling on him today. 

“Hey!” Carwood shouted, starting toward the replacement. The man stopped and turned toward him. He looked completely normal, even forgettable, but many monsters did. There was only one way to really know. “I think you dropped something,” Carwood said, and tossed the candlestick toward him. 

Like most people, the man caught the object flying toward him on instinct. He immediately recoiled, dropping it with a cry as burns started to form on his hands. 

Carwood didn't have time to appreciate that he'd found the wraith before he was shoved hard into a wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and he only managed to stay standing by desperately clinging to the wall behind him. 

“Christ, you're a pathetic excuse for a hunter,” the wraith said, knocking him into the wall again. “That is what you are, isn't it? A hunter? You wouldn't know it to look at you.” 

Carwood couldn't say anything, just clung to the wall gasping for air through a throat that didn't seem to want to breathe. The wraith grinned nastily and pressed in close. “You're not my favorite flavor; I like them a little more traumatized than you. But I didn't get to eat last night because of you, so I think you'll do for a quick snack.” The wraith bent his hand back and the spike wraith used to feed slipped out of his wrist. He brought it up next to Carwood’s head, preparing to push it through his skin and bone and straight into his brain. 

Before he could get any closer, Carwood reached up and wrapped his hand around the spike. With a wrench that seemed to take all his strength, he broke it off. 

The wraith reared back with a blood curdling scream, one Carwood could only hope no one would come investigate. The last thing he needed was to try to explain this mess to a non-hunter. 

Without the wraith supporting him, Carwood almost collapsed. His knees were wobbling, threatening to spill him to the ground and he kept feeling hot then cold. He felt like he was about to throw up or pass out and he could barely hear the threats and expletives the wraith was throwing at him. 

He felt a hand grab the front of his jacket and reacted instinctively, pulling back on the wraith’s thumb to break the grip. He followed it up with a knee to the groin and an elbow to the face. The wraith fell to his knees, groaning into the dirt and Carwood finally felt his brain start grinding back into gear. He couldn't just beat on the wraith, much as his anger made him want to do just that. He needed to end this before the wraith got the better of him and escaped or killed him. And to do that he needed silver, something he could use as a weapon. 

Like that candlestick he'd so foolishly thrown at the wraith. 

Cursing himself for an idiot, he started desperately searching the area nearby, hoping against all reason that he'd spot it before the wraith recovered. 

It wasn't to be; the wraith grabbed him again but this time he didn't hesitate, just lifted Carwood up and threw him across the street like he didn't weigh anything. 

There was a breathless moment of weightlessness before he hit the ground with a bone jarring thud. The impact drove the breath from his lungs again and this time he couldn't get a breath back in. All he could do was watch as the wraith stalked toward him, groping for the jump knife in his boot and struggling to breathe. 

God, he'd made a hash of this, right from the start. He was a good hunter, had to be after hunting for over a decade, but he'd never been on a case in which he was so emotionally involved and it had blinded him, made him act rashly. And one of the things that killed hunters the fastest was acting rashly. 

The wraith had almost reached him when someone called Carwood’s name from up the street. He whipped his head around, squinting to try and see through his tunneling vision, and felt his stomach drop. Malarkey was standing at the end of the street, fear and shock written across his face. But even as he watched, that fear melted into determination as Malarkey swung his M1 up to point at the wraith. 

“Back away from the Sergeant, Private,” he said, voice like steel. “I don't know what the hell is going on here but you are way out of line.” 

The wraith just laughed. “Don't worry, I'll get to you.” Then he turned to glare at Carwood, flexing his wrist where Carwood could see the broken spike was starting to grow back. “Just as soon as I'm done with this piece of shit.” 

“I'm not kidding, I will shoot you if go any closer to him!” Malarkey shouted, sighting along his rifle. The wraith just threw him a darkly amused look and started to walk toward Carwood. 

Carwood finally managed to free his jump knife but before he could do anything with it gunshots split the air and he ducked instinctively. Malarkey had opened fire, four shots that connected with perfect accuracy. Any one of those shots probably would have killed a human; but the wraith wasn't human and didn't even seem to feel them. 

“What the fuck?” Malarkey said, renewed terror heavy in his voice. 

“Malark, I need silver!” Carwood shouted, hoping it would be enough to get Malarkey moving, ideally as far away from the fight as he could get. Carwood didn't really care about finding an actual weapon at this point—he'd dig a hole in this thing’s chest with his jump knife and drop his wedding ring inside if he had to—he just wanted Malarkey safely away from here. 

Then he heard that familiar chuffing sound and looked across the river to see a spreading cloud of smoke. The word he'd shouted so often welled up in his throat: “Incoming!” 

He hit the ground where he was, unable to summon the strength to try to find some kind of cover. He just pressed himself into the dirt, covered his face with his arms, and prayed. 

The sound of the shells hitting was thunderous. The shockwave blew over him, followed closely by jolts of pain in his neck and shoulder. Carwood kept his head down, knowing better than to stand until after the shelling was done. And if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure if he could stand. 

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and he jerked away reflexively, bringing his knife up in front of him. 

“Whoa, whoa, Lip, it's just me!” Malarkey was kneeling in front of him, holding his hands palm up. He didn't seem to be hurt, thank god, just covered in dirt as usual after a close shelling. Carwood lowered the knife, looking around warily.

“Where did it go?” He asked. 

Malarkey swallowed and then gestured to the left. “I, uh, I think it's dead.” 

Carwood followed his gaze and spotted the wraith lying face down on the ground, motionless. He tightened his grip on his knife and somehow managed to haul himself to his feet, Malarkey grabbing his free arm and slinging it over his shoulder. Together, they hobbled over to the wraith. 

It seemed the wraith had taken the brunt of the shelling. And whatever else a wraith could do, it seemed like one couldn't survive having most of its head blown off. 

Carwood sighed deeply, letting himself sag against Malarkey for a moment before straightening with a nod to himself. 

“We need to head back to CP. It’s not safe here.” 

“You need to go to a medic,” Malarkey said, staring at Carwood. Carwood reached up with his free hand, wincing as it pulled on his shoulder, and felt the wetness of blood on his face. Dammit, if he kept taking hits to the face he wouldn't have one left by the end of the war. 

“Alright, let’s go find Doc.”  

“Yeah. And then you can tell me what the hell that thing was,” Malarkey said, casting one last look at the wraith before they turned away.

Malarkey led him to roe with unerring accuracy. Roe took one look at them and waved Carwood into a seat, which he took gratefully. He practically dozed off while Roe was patching him up, only rousing himself when Malarkey and Roe started whispering to each other heatedly. 

“Where did this happen?” Roe hissed. 

“We were at the burned out house with the piano, by the river.” 

Roe looked angrier than Carwood had seen him in a long time. “What the hell were you thinking, taking him anywhere near there?”

“I—”

“Don't blame malarkey, Doc,” Carwood cut in before Malarkey could try to defend himself. “I was just making the rounds, checking on everyone. Ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose.” 

Roe shot him a hard look before bending back over his shoulder. “Try explaining that to Captain Speirs.” 

Carwood sighed and nodded, smiling reluctantly when he heard Malarkey mutter a quiet curse under his breath. 

Roe finished bandaging him up then checked his temperature and breathing. He finally finished with a sigh and turned to Malarkey. “You take him straight back to the billet, no detours. Then get him into that bed and stay there until he gets some real sleep, even if you have to sit on him to make it happen.” 

Malarkey nodded and helped Carwood to his feet. They limped back to the billet and up the stairs to the room, Carwood leaning heavily on Malarkey all the way. He collapsed on the bed barely, taking the time to wrestle his boots off before crawling under the mound of blankets. 

Malarkey stood next to the bed, staring at him uncertainly. Carwood patted the blankets next to him until Malarkey took the hint and sat. 

“What the hell was that thing?” Malarkey asked after a long moment of silence. “I-I shot it and it just kept going. What could do that?”

Carwood put his hand on Malarkey’s shoulder, suppressed his weariness and pain, and told him. 

It was hardly the first time he'd told a victim or a victim’s family about the supernatural; the words came easy, even though it had been years since he'd spoken them. But looking at Malarkey now, struggling to understand such a dynamic shift in his worldview, Carwood started to hope that it might be the last time he had to deliver this particular speech. He had spent a little over two years now out of the hunting world, a world he'd never chosen to enter but had been born into like so many generations of his family. He'd saved lives, and that had always made it worth it: the blood, the violence, the missed sleep, the fear. But he'd saved lives here too, helped his men through things no one should have to go through. and if Speirs’ words that night in the church were to be believed, he didn't need to be a hunter to do that; he just needed to be himself. 

 

\---------

 

According to Ron, their destination was about a half hour drive from Carwood’s motel. Carwood found himself dreading it, not just because of the fight that more than likely awaited them but because he didn't want to spend so long in a cramped space in awkward silence with Ron. Or worse, with Ron interrogating him. Whatever agreement they may have come to in order to finish this hunt, he knew that Ron had questions, and he'd never been shy about asking. 

And he was right; Carwood had barely turned out of the parking lot before Ron started speaking. 

“So, your entire family is involved in this?” Ron waved his hand in a gesture meant to include the entire situation. “This hunting business?” 

Carwood concentrated on making the correct turns, squeezing his hands tight around the steering wheel. “That’s right.” 

“Your mother? Brother?” 

“Yes. The family has been hunters for generations.” 

Ron didn’t say anything for a moment. Carwood glued his eyes to the road so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at his face. 

“Your father didn’t die in an automobile accident, did he?” Ron asked, a gentle note in his voice. 

Carwood swallowed heavily, and forced his hands to unclench from the steering wheel. “No. Vampire.” 

“Jesus,” Ron muttered. Carwood saw him turn in his seat slightly to better face him. “Is that when you started hunting?” 

“Yes.” 

“Weren’t you ten at the time?” Ron demanded, anger starting to come through in his tone. 

“I was,” Carwood confirmed. 

He saw Ron shake his head out of the corner of his eye. “What did your mother have to say about that?” 

“What do you mean?” Carwood asked absently, leaning forward to read a street sign then turning right. 

“You were a ten year old taking on monsters who could tear an adult apart. I would think she had something to say about that,” Ron said, his anger now shining through clearly, clipping his words short and staccato. 

Carwood glanced away from the road to shoot Ron a quick, confused look. “Wait a minute, are you—are you angry at my mother? You haven’t even met her!” 

“I’m not angry at your mother, that would be ridiculous,” Ron snapped, obviously lying, “I just think it’s irresponsible that she let her ten-year-old son run around hunting werewolves.” 

“Well, first of all, I wasn’t hunting werewolves at ten, I was learning how to hunt,” Carwood said, trying not to sound angry himself and failing. “And I chose to do that.” 

“What choice? You’ve been raised in this since you were a boy! Don’t tell me that you ever expected to do anything different with your life because I won’t believe you, no matter what you said about going to school.” 

“Well, becoming a soldier wasn’t exactly in the cards, was it?” Carwood pointed out, not willing to acknowledge Ron’s point had hit home. 

“Oh, please, as if you would have done anything different once the war started,” Ron said witheringly. “Your Carwood Lipton. When duty calls, you answer.” 

Carwood didn’t say anything to that, choosing to change the subject so he wouldn’t have to look at those words too closely. “Many hunters start at an early age. I actually know some who started hunting full-time when they were younger than I was. And it’s not like I was hunting alone.” 

Ron sighed, loud and long. “All of that is incredibly beside the point.” 

“Then, what is the point?” Carwood demanded, feeling frustration bubbling in his chest. 

“The point is that you’ve been in danger this entire goddamn time and I had no idea!” Ron snapped, “I didn’t even know the danger existed!” 

“Ron—” Carwood started, feeling a bizarre warmth in his chest at Ron’s defensive anger even while he couldn’t agree with what he was saying. 

“What?” Ron snapped, whipping out a smoke and lighting up. The smell made Carwood want one too, but he didn’t ask for one. 

Carwood thought about what he wanted to say for a moment before speaking. “I’m alright,” he said finally, glancing at Ron. Ron looked up from where he was smoking sullenly long enough to meet his gaze before looking back out the window. 

“It’s not your job to protect me. And it’s not your fault you didn’t know. It’s not exactly common knowledge,” Carwood continued haltingly, hoping his carefully selected words would soothe rather than provoke. 

“Well, maybe it should be,” Ron said abruptly. 

“Excuse me?” 

“Maybe it should be common knowledge. How the hell are people supposed to protect themselves against these things if they don’t know about them?” Ron asked, letting out a long breath of smoke. The smell was starting to make Carwood twitch with his desire for a smoke so he rolled down his window to get some air. 

“That’s what hunters are for,” Carwood replied, “we protect people from the monsters so they don’t have to deal with them.” 

“Well, that hasn’t done Jeremy a hell of a lot of good, has it?” Ron said scathingly, turning to face the window. 

Carwood flinched but couldn’t say anything to that, guilt and failure pressing heavily on him. They rode in silence for a few long minutes, the incongruous sun shining off the asphalt and into Carwood’s eyes. 

“You can’t have it both ways,” Carwood finally said quietly, unwilling to fully break the silence in the cab. “If everyone knew about the supernatural, more people would be raised as hunters and there would be more bloodshed. It’s better this way.” 

Ron snorted bitterly before responding, voice thick. “What a noble fucking sacrifice you’re making.” 

Carwood swallowed down the angry words that wanted to pour out of his mouth. What the hell did Ron know about the sacrifices he had made, the price he had paid in blood to keep others safe? Nothing, he acknowledged. Carwood hadn’t told him. And that, ultimately, was the point. 

“Does your wife know?” Ron asked. He sounded completely unemotional, exactly like the unfeeling machine so many of the boys had told stories about during the war. Carwood snuck a glance at him. Ron was staring at the cigarette in his hand, letting it burn down. 

“Yeah, she knows.” 

“Christ, she’s a hunter too, isn’t she?” Ron asked, not even sounding surprised. “Do you know anyone who isn’t a hunter?” 

“I know you,” Carwood said without thinking and then continued to speak to cover the awkwardness he felt about making that statement. “And the rest of the boys.” 

“No hunters in the company, huh?” 

“Not as far as I’m aware.” And Carwood was sure he would be aware. Another hunter would have recognized the warding he etched in the walls of the foxholes in Bastogne to try to provide protection from incoming artillery instead of writing them off or just plain not noticing them like the boys had done. Maybe another hunter would have noticed and fixed whatever flaw had been in the warding that let Muck and Penkala get hit. He wondered if this was a good time to bring up Malarkey’s encounter with the wraith in Hagenau and decided that he should probably never bring that up.

Ron didn’t say anything in reply, snorting again and slumping further in his seat. Carwood couldn’t think of anything to say either, so he let the silence fall again. They rode the rest of the way there in that same silence, Carwood feeling increasingly awkward and tense as the minutes dragged by. 

Finally, they got close enough that Carwood pulled over and shut off the truck. 

“We'll walk the rest,” he said, “maybe we'll be able to surprise him.” 

Ron nodded and moved to open his door.

“Wait,” Carwood stopped him. Ron turned to him. Any emotion he'd felt on the way over had been scrubbed cleanly from his expression, leaving only the attentiveness of waiting for direction and the small beginnings of excitement of the chase. Carwood found he couldn't say any of the things he wanted to say and turned his thoughts to the hunt, shoving everything else away. 

“You've got holy water and salt,” he said, gesturing to Ron's pockets. “They'll hurt the demon but not Jeremy. Only use the gun if you absolutely have to. The salt shells won't kill Jeremy but they will sting something awful.

“The most important thing to watch out for is the demon. Demons can ride their hosts even when the host is dead so if the fight turns it may just kill Jeremy out of spite. We have to move quickly so that doesn't happen.” 

“Carwood,” Ron said and Carwood was surprised when he reached out and touched Carwood’s knee. Just for a second before he pulled away quickly, but still. “You told me all this already. We're as ready as we're going to get.” 

Carwood nodded. “Alright. Just—” he hesitated then continued, “Follow my lead, alright? I know you don't trust me right now—” Carwood’s stomach twisted, “—but this is how you and Jeremy survive.” 

Ron didn't say anything, just looked at him for a long moment before nodding gravely and slipping quietly out of the cab. 

Carwood sighed silently to himself, the last of it coming out in a couple coughs that scraped at his throat. Then he slipped out of the truck himself, easing the door shut behind him. God, he was ready for this hunt to be over. 

It was a beautiful area, if you didn’t know there was probably a demon nearby or that someone had been violently murdered there. It was probably even more beautiful in summer, with lots of full trees and bushes. The trees had lost most of their leaves by now but the area hadn’t received much snow. Carwood glanced up at the bare branches, reaching skeletal fingers up to the grey sky and tried not to shiver. 

A clear area came into view after a few minutes of walking. There was a cabin against the tree line on their left and a dock overlooking the a small lake across the clearing ahead of them. It had obviously once been a well-loved home, but the area was now growing over, the grass long and weeds poking through the slats of the porch. Eventually, it would be entirely reclaimed by the forest; Carwood couldn’t muster much pity for it, considering the sad history of the place. 

Ron signalled for them to stop and Carwood instinctually dropped into a crouch, using the hedge as cover. He followed Ron's gaze to see a man exit the cabin and start across the yard toward the dock. 

“That's Jeremy,” Ron said, voice calm and quiet. If Carwood wasn't pressed against him, he might have thought Ron completely at ease, but the tension in his body gave him away. 

“Is that where the girl drowned?” Carwood asked, nodding toward the dock.

“That's how the story goes.” 

“Then that's where he'll do it, whatever he’s doing,” Carwood rested a hand over his pocket for a second then signalled Ron over to the right. Ron nodded, patted Carwood on the shoulder, and disappeared into the underbrush. 

Carwood waited as long as he could to give Ron some time to get into position, until the demon was almost at the dock. Then he eased himself out through the hedge and stood. 

“Hey!” He shouted. His voice carried in the quiet peace of the clearing and the demon stopped, whirling with an almost comical look of surprise on his face. 

Carwood started to walk toward him. “This is private property, you can't be here.” 

The demon’s surprise faded into a look of unctuous reassurement. He was obviously thinking that Carwood was some kind of concerned neighbour who'd spotted him and was trying to pretend to be human until he could make Carwood go away.  

“I'm so sorry, sir,” the demon said, a note of pleading in his voice, “but my car broke down just up the road and I've been trying to find some spare parts or tools so I can fix it.” 

As the demon spoke, Carwood could see Ron break cover from the trees, staying low to stay out of sight. Carwood didn't let any sign of the sight appear on his face, keeping his eyes fixed on the demon. Their plan was simple: distract the demon long enough for Ron to unfurl the devil’s trap on their tarp. Then Carwood would drive the demon into the trap and perform the exorcism. If all went according to plan, Jeremy could be home with his wife by dinner. 

Of course, Carwood wasn't foolish enough to think that it would really be that easy. Ron had always been fond of saying that even the best plans never survived contact with the enemy, something some other commander had said once upon a time and Ron had taken a shine to. Carwood had always found the statement dismal, but true more often than not. But simpler plans were easier to improvise off of so Carwood had elected to keep it basic so he'd be able to think quickly when things inevitably went awry. 

But it seemed like the plan was going fine for now. Carwood kept up a drone of conversation, playing up his role as irritated neighbour and pulling the demon’s attention toward him and away from Ron's activities behind him. The demon seemed surprisingly willing to play along and kept up his own end of the bargain; Carwood had half expected the demon to lose his temper and attack. It’s not like demons were careful about their body count, after all. But maybe they'd actually get lucky this time. 

Just as Ron was laying out the devil’s trap, the demon abruptly cut off his description of his fake car troubles and flicked his wrist. Ron was tossed into the air by an invisible force, disappearing into a bush with a crash of snapping branches. 

The demon didn't even look, twisting Jeremy Reynolds’ face into an ugly smirk. “You must really think I'm an idiot—” the demon started to say then broke off into a scream as Carwood whipped out his bottle of holy water and splashed it across the demon’s face. The demon staggered back, bringing his hand up to cover his face, the hissing of the holy water on his skin combining with his continued screams. 

Carwood splashed him again, forcing him to take another step back. He needed to keep the demon off balance, keep driving him back until he was helpless inside the devil’s trap. He couldn't think about Ron, couldn't think about how he could be hurt, the fact that he hadn't emerged from the bush yet seeming to indicate that he was. He couldn't think about any of that, because then they'd probably all die here and the demon would be one step closer to accomplishing whatever it was it was doing. 

Carwood pressed his advantage, forcing the demon further back. Then, in a gesture almost too quick to see, the demon flicked out its wrist and the water bottle tore itself out of his hands. Carwood didn't let himself take a moment to be surprised, just scrambled for another weapon. 

 

A sharp pain started abruptly in Carwood’s chest. It felt tight, like all his insides were being squeezed together. He gasped for breath, hand still reaching for his pocket even as he struggled to keep standing. 

“I'm not letting some insignificant hunter get in my way again,” the demon snarled, a clenched fist held out in front of him. the last of the holy water hissing as it evaporated from his skin. “Play time was fun but this ends now.” 

Carwood collapsed to his knees, wheezing for a breath that wouldn't come as his vision started to go dark. He had managed to grab the salt out of his pocket but he didn't have the strength to lift the box out. Christ, he was actually going to die here. 

The demon flinched and Carwood could suddenly breathe again. The sound of his blood rushing in his ears died down as he gasped for air and he heard Ron's voice from across the yard. 

“—omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—”

The demon continued to writhe as Ron spoke, emitting disturbing cries every couple words. Carwood dug the salt out of his pocket, struggling to his feet. He abstractly noted the blood running down Ron's cheek, the way he was holding his left arm close to his side as he advanced, but he didn't let himself feel it. He couldn't afford the distraction of Ron being hurt to enter his mind, not until the fight was over.  

Carwood surged forward, using the salt to force the demon back. The demon screamed as soon as the salt touched its skin and threw its hands up to cover its face. At the same time, Carwood felt something invisible slam into his chest, lifting him off his feet and tossing him back. His flight through the air was stopped by his back impacting with a tree. All the breath left his body at once and he collapsed limply to the ground. He felt the familiar panic of being unable to breathe taking over his thoughts while his lungs spasmed. He tried to keep himself focused, digging his fingers into the cold dirt and straining to concentrate past his rushing blood in his ears and his darkening vision. The fact he couldn’t breathe again, for the second time in as many minutes, didn’t matter. The fact that Ron, already injured, was facing off against a demon alone did. 

He thought he heard shouting, followed by a loud bang, then a drawn out cry, but he couldn’t be sure. When Carwood finally managed to catch a decent breath, blinking to try to clear his vision as he looked back over to the fight, the clearing was silent. He heaved himself to his feet with a groan, coughing and wheezing for breath, squinting in the winter sunshine. 

The demon was sprawled on the ground, eyes closed. Ron was standing next to him staring with his head cocked to the side, something dangling from his hand. Carwood felt a rush of relief to see Ron alright and the demon down, but confusion quickly replaced it. The tableau in front of him didn’t make any sense: he would think that Ron had somehow knocked the demon unconscious if he didn’t know that was impossible. Demons didn’t stop for little things like blows to the head or mortal injuries—they just kept coming, even after the host was dead. And Ron looked—different. Carwood couldn’t put a finger on exactly what it was but there was something wrong about how Ron was holding himself, some subtle difference that was making Carwood uneasy. 

“Ron?” he called, starting to make his way forward. Every step felt painful and every breath came with a sharp pain in his side that told him being slammed into any more objects would probably be a very bad idea. 

Ron didn’t say anything, just kept fiddling with whatever was in his hand and staring down at the demon. Carwood followed his gaze as he got closer and felt his stomach drop. The body on the ground was obviously dead, chest still and eyes staring. There were small bloody injuries scattered across his chest, wounds that Carwood recognized as coming from a salt round. But that hadn’t been what killed Jeremy—Carwood could see the bloody puncture wound in his gut and closed his eyes. 

“Shit,” he hissed, guilt and shame burning in his throat and threatening to choke him. He should have known better than to make that promise to Mrs. Reynolds. He opened his eyes, looking back at Ron. “Ron, I’m so sorry.” The glint of something in the sunlight caught his eye. There was a knife in Jeremy’s hand, covered in blood. Carwood immediately looked to Ron, but he couldn’t see any kind of injuries beyond what he’d already had before Carwood was knocked out of the fight. 

“What the hell happened?” he asked, trying to catch Ron’s eyes. Ron didn’t say anything, just kept staring while—was that a smirk? Motion caught Carwood’s eyes and his gaze dropped to Ron’s hand and the anti-possession amulet hanging there. 

Realization clicked into place and his hand flew to the other bottle of holy water in his pocket, but by then it was too late. 

Ron—no, not Ron—finally turned to face him and Carwood felt his body freeze without his volition in the same moment. A cruel smile pulled at Ron’s mouth as his eyes flicked up and down Carwood’s body before fixing on his face. 

“Well,” he said, “the famous Carwood Lipton.” And his eyes flicked black. 

Carwood felt an involuntary noise rip out of his throat and if he wasn’t already frozen he might have fallen. 

The demon blinked, Ron’s green eyes emerging from demonic black. “I have to say, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. If I’d known you were hunting me I would have said hello earlier. Maybe then poor Jeremy wouldn’t have died,” he said mockingly, gaze drifting over to the body on the ground before jumping back to Carwood. “But then, you’ve never been very good at saving people, have you. Especially not people you profess to care for.” 

Carwood didn’t let his expression change, even while the demon’s words dug deep under his skin. Demons lied. Except when they didn’t because the truth hurt more. And this demon now had a front row seat to all of Carwood’s truths, everything he had ever told or written Ron now second-hand knowledge for the demon to use as he wanted. 

“Honestly, I expected better from you,” the demon continued, derision heavy in his voice. Carwood was almost grateful; it made it easier to separate the demon and Ron in his mind, regardless of how they looked. Ron had never spoken to him with that tone, not even today. 

“You are the product of the Lipton and Campbell family lines, two hunting families so famous even us damned souls have heard of you,” the demon laughed nastily. “And yet here you are, hunting with an amateur and taken down with barely a fight.” The demon raised an eyebrow, twisting Ron’s face into a mocking look. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

“Let him go,” Carwood said immediately, the only thing he could think of saying, “Please, please, let him go.” 

The demon snorted, looking at Carwood with a kind of fond amusement that looked so much like Ron it made Carwood shake. “You and I both know that’s not possible.” 

“Please, you can have me,” Carwood said. “Take me as a host and let him go.” Carwood hadn’t thought before he said it, but he wouldn’t take it back and he couldn’t regret it. Even if the rest of his life was short and painful and full of horrors he was helpless to stop, he would never regret it if it saved Ron. 

But the demon was already shaking his head with a laugh. “Somehow, I knew you were going to say that. Actually,” he continued, looking faux-thoughtful, “it’s probably because Ron knew you were going to say that.” 

Carwood’s expression must have changed somehow because the demon laughed again. “That’s right,” he said, tapping his temple with one finger, “Ron’s awake in here with me. And let me just say, he is not happy.” 

Carwood didn’t say anything, couldn’t. He searched Ron’s eyes, somehow hoping to find something of Ron still in them, but all he saw was the demon staring back. 

“But I don’t need him to be happy,” the demon continued, and some distant part of Carwood noted that if he did manage to get out of this alive, he’d be able to add to what little was known about demons that they loved to talk. “All I need are his hands and his voice. Oh, and before you get any funny ideas,” the demon bent and grabbed the knife out of Jeremy’s hand, twirling it to catch the light. “Know that I don’t need Ron alive to finish this ritual.” 

The demon turned, strolling casually back toward the dock. Carwood felt all hope that either he or Ron would get out of this alive fade completely. He never should have brought Ron here, not matter what he said or what Carwood felt, because now they would both die. After the demon had done whatever it intended, it would kill Carwood and use Ron until he decided he preferred a different host. And Ron would spend the entire time trapped inside his own body, helpless to do anything but watch while his body was used to perpetrate evil. 

Carwood couldn’t bear to let that happen. He knew Ron would rather die than have his body be used for that. But that knowledge didn’t free Carwood, didn’t let him get to his feet and stand and pursue the demon like he wanted to. All he had was his voice. 

But with any luck, his voice would be enough. 

He waited, watching the demon closely as he walked away. This plan was stupid, it was reckless, it could barely even be called a plan, but it was all he had. He tried to prepare himself as much as he could, imagined his muscle gathering in preparation to leap to his feet. Three steps, then two, then—

“Exorcizamus te—” his voice rang out across the clearing, and Carwood knew the demon had heard him when he twitched and writhed. 

The demon snarled and started to turn. “Shut up!” he shouted and Carwood’s mouth snapped shut, his voice dying in his throat. But that didn’t matter, he didn’t need his voice right now. The power of the exorcism had disrupted the demon’s control for a critical moment, allowing Carwood to move. He’d leapt into a sprint immediately, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side as he swiftly closed the distance. 

The demon’s eyes widened as he turned far enough to notice how close Carwood was. His arm started to come up just as Carwood slammed into him, using his momentum to carry him forward and push the demon backward. The momentum carried them both until the demon came to an abrupt stop and Carwood carried on alone. He stumbled to a halt and turned, breath wheezing in and out as the pain in his side redoubled. But his plan, such as it was, had worked. The demon was inside the Devil’s Trap, pressed against the inside edge and unable to step outside. 

The demon snarled and swore, eyes enraged. Carwood wet his lips, noting with satisfaction that the demon’s control on him had faded. But he needed to act quickly. He started to chant the exorcism. 

“You think this will save you?” the demon snarled, biting out words between inarticulate cries. “Send me back to the pit all you want but I’ll be back topside soon enough. And when I am I’ll hunt you down, you and all your hunter filth. I’ll do you slow, make it last. Hell, maybe I’ll wear this meatsuit to do it. Finally let him hear you scream and beg the way he wants you to.” 

Carwood tried not to listen, staying focused on pronouncing the Latin correctly. The demon continued to spit curses and scream, contorting in ways that Carwood couldn’t help but flinch to see.

“Audi nos!” Carwood finally shouted, and the demon threw his head back and screamed. A long black cloud, reeking of sulfur, poured out of Ron’s mouth, whirling in the air and pouring into a red fissure that opened up in the ground. The cloud seemed to go on forever until it was suddenly gone. The fissure closed and silence descended on the yard as Ron collapsed to his knees. 

“Ron?” Carwood whispered, throat feeling raw. Ron whipped his head up, panting for breath. He looked shaken, frightened, more frightened than Carwood had ever seen him show. 

“Jesus, Carwood,” he breathed, surging to his feet and toward Carwood. It was only after he stepped out of the Devil’s Trap like it was nothing that Carwood actually let himself relax. Actually, now that the fight was over, he felt rather dizzy and his knees were shaking like they were about to give. 

“I think I need to sit down,” he said, and would have fallen if Ron hadn’t caught him and lowered him to the ground. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Ron murmured absently, his gaze flicking between Carwood’s face and his chest. He still looked so scared, Carwood noted distantly, and that wasn’t right. Ron had never looked scared like this before, not through the entire time Carwood had known him. He knew Ron had felt fear, they all had, but he had always been so good at divorcing himself from it it was almost shocking to see it writ so large now.

“Ron,” he whispered, then tried to clear his throat. It seemed to be getting harder to breathe and the pain in his side was worse. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Carwood,” Ron said, the fear on his face battling with exasperation. His eyes flicked back down to Carwood’s chest. “I don’t think you should be comforting me right now.” 

Carwood frowned and finally looked down toward his chest, wondering what had so captured Ron’s attention. He was almost unsurprised to see the handle of the knife protruding from his abdomen. He had assumed the demon had dropped it when Carwood tackled him. Apparently he had only misplaced it in Carwood’s chest cavity. 

He felt a hand of his face and looked back up at Ron. “Don’t look at that, look at me,” Ron said, palm cupping Carwood’s cheek. It was an easy command to follow; looking at Ron had never been a hardship. 

“Carwood, I need you to focus, alright? I need to get you back to the truck and to the hospital, but I need you to help me do that. Okay? Carwood?” 

Carwood nodded blearily, not really understanding what Ron was saying to him. All he could see was the fear lingering in Ron’s face.

“It’s okay,” Carwood said again, lifting his hand to cover Ron’s on his cheek. Even that small motion seemed like a gargantuan effort, and he wasn’t certain how Ron thought he was going to get up and back to the truck. 

It wasn’t possible, Carwood had known that as soon as he saw the knife still in him. Ron just hadn’t accepted it, thought he could still beat the odds like he had so many times before. Carwood didn’t think he had that kind of luck left in him. 

“Hey, don’t pass out on me, I need you awake,” Ron said firmly, bringing his left hand up with a faint wince to pat Carwood’s cheek gently. “Stay with me, Carwood.” 

Carwood thought of Ma and Leland, waiting for him patiently at home in vain. Ron wouldn’t let them wait forever, no matter how angry he was at Carwood. He’d go and tell them what had happened, give them that closure at least. And then he’d be left to go home, with a dead brother-in-law and the experience of pure evil forcing its way down his throat fresh in his mind. All because Carwood couldn’t do his fucking job, the one thing he was supposed to be good for. 

“I’m sorry,” Carwood said, unable to feel ashamed of the tears he could feel in his eyes, “I’m so sorry.”

Ron’s face twisted, his brow crumpling for a moment before smoothing back into determination. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.” 

Carwood swallowed heavily, and thought he could taste rust. He couldn’t think of anything else to say and Ron didn’t want his apologies no matter how warranted they were. But that was okay. That was fair. Carwood probably didn’t deserve to say them anyway. 

Ron was speaking again, but Carwood couldn’t hear him this time. He just watched his lips moved dazedly, and remembered that distant time when he’d first realized he wanted to kiss them. It felt so long ago now, like it had happened to some different person who led a different life. 

And maybe some other Carwood Lipton had. In some other place or some other time, another Carwood Lipton had kissed those lips, had known what it felt like to be held close in those arms. 

It was as nice a thought as any to die to, he thought, as the world went black around him.

 

\--------

 

Hunters died for two reasons: one, they got reckless, letting emotion and desperation push them to do things they wouldn't ordinarily do until they took a hit they couldn't walk away from. 

Two, their luck ran out. Simple as anything. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> :D
> 
> you can also find me @kaledanvers on Tumblr!
> 
> Poltergeist - http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Poltergeists  
> Demon - http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Demons  
> Vampire - http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/Vampires  
> Shapeshifter - http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/Shapeshifters  
> Siren - http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/Sirens  
> Ghoul - http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/Ghouls  
> Werewolves - http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/Werewolves  
> Wraith - http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Wraith


End file.
